


Compromises

by Ellie_Rosie



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Communication Failure, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 51,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9084793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie_Rosie/pseuds/Ellie_Rosie
Summary: Their relationship was one of compromises, Yuuri thought, usually in Victor's favour. Not that Yuuri minded - in all likelihood, he would probably set himself on fire if Victor complained about being cold. But there was one thing Yuuri point blank refused to compromise on; he would not step foot within a 100 metre radius of an ice rink.AU in which Yuuri quit skating as a teenager, Victor isn't amazing at communication, and Yurio thinks they are both idiots.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授權翻譯】Compromises by Ellie_Rosie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9518843) by [inoripooh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoripooh/pseuds/inoripooh)



 

 

Yuuri was shy. Victor got that. He understood it. Hell, if anything he _enjoyed_ it. Maybe it was selfish of him to like something that made Yuuri’s life a daily struggle – the way it was only Victor who could make him calm in crowded places, the way he could trace the soft sigh of Yuuri’s collar bone or make his fingertips tiptoe up and down the knobs of his partner’s spine until he came together again, how it was Victor and Victor alone who could make Yuuri believe he was worth anything – but Victor had never claimed to be perfect (well, maybe he had, but still). Being one of the stars amongst the small constellation of people who could get Yuuri out of his shell gave Victor some kind of kick. Yuuri was the sort of person to cross over to the other side of the road for the express purpose of not having to walk past another human being. And that was okay. Victor got it. It was one of the many grains of sand that melted down to make the glass swan of Yuuri Katsuki. Victor thought himself very patient, kind, caring in regards to Yuuri and his anxiety. On the occasions where Yuuri would turn deep pools of brown up to him, fringed with tears, muttering frantically about being sorry, about not being good enough, Victor would touch a finger to the younger man’s chapped lips, made stripy from being constantly gnawed at, and tell him that it was okay. That he got it. And he did. 

But he didn’t get why Yuuri would never watch him skate. Sure, he’d watch the Russian on the television or on YouTube – but he’d never _physically_ watch him; not in practice, not at small local competitions and not at big international ones. He would travel to competitions with Victor, but then just _not_ show at the rink. _Okay,_ Victor had told himself at first, _the rink can get pretty busy, he just doesn’t like crowded places_. So he had arranged for Yuuri to come after hours to watch him dress rehearse a routine. And, suddenly, Yuuri had unchangeable life-or-death plans with Phichit, who lived in an apartment a couple of floors down from theirs and was, among other things, one of Victor’s rink mates. This had been the first in a long line of unsuccessful get-Yuuri-to-the-rink schemes.

Victor saw himself as understanding when it came to Yuuri. Attentive, even. He’d never given so much time and energy and attention to any one person – unless, of course, you wanted to get poetic about it and personify the ice. But he couldn’t understand Yuuri’s apparent repulsion to the thing that made Victor Nikiforov _the_ Victor Nikiforov. Not only couldn’t he understand it, but it hurt too. Like, _hurt_ hurt. It hurt like the first time Victor had fallen at a competition; it made him feel small, insignificant, like the inside of his chest was inflating too much for his ribs to contain it, then compressing to be nothing but a shrivelled up cherry stone, _not good enough not good enough notgoodenough_. It hurt in seismic ways. And what hurt him even more was that he just didn’t _understand_ it. He was supposed to understand Yuuri, his fiancé, in ways that nobody else could. Yuuri was _his_ , but when it came to this, he wasn’t.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Their relationship was one of compromises, Yuuri thought and often found himself thinking.

They’d met at a bar in Chicago, Illinois. Yuuri had gone – or, rather, been dragged – there on The Holiday of a Lifetime with his sister. Victor had been there for Skate America. 

Unable to sleep, Yuuri had gone down to the hotel bar, but looking under twenty-one and having left his ID in the hotel room, he had been refused service. So there he was, moping in a corner booth by the door, breathing in the smell of an overnight frost and cigarettes, weighing up the pros and cons of starting smoking (pro: it was meant to be good for anxiety, con: he remembered a health ed class in high school where the teacher had told him every cigarette smoked would take five minutes off of his life), when Victor had dropped down opposite him with a cocktail glass in each hand and an apocalyptic beam lighting up his face. All it had taken was a wink and Yuuri had been under the older man’s spell; it was like being trapped in Perspex, wrapped in water, and it was _wonderful_.

The next morning, however, he had not been feeling quite so wonderful and in fact felt as well as one could expect to feel after downing eight Long Island Iced Teas in rapid succession. As soon as his eyes had creaked open he’d been rushing to the toilet to vomit, not taking the time to clock that the hotel room he was in was not the one he had been sharing with his sister but was bigger, had a double bed instead of twins, and a view of the city that could inspire an artist to do great things.

Later Victor would say that it was the open, kicked-puppy gaze Yuuri had thrown him as he looked up from the toilet that had gotten him smitten. Yuuri wasn’t sure how he should feel about that, but instead focussed on the fact that Victor was smitten with him in the first place, for which he was very grateful. He was, after all, _the_ Victor Nikiforov. 

It was that first meeting, he supposed, that had been the first compromise. Yuuri couldn’t buy alcohol so Victor had compromised by buying it for him, which had resulted in sex which, Yuuri thought, was sort of a compromise in return for the overpriced cocktails. It was a good kind of compromise.

That should have been that.

Yuuri and Victor should have simply been one of the many one night stands witnessed by the hotel walls – a happy mistake, neither the worse off for it but perhaps a little bit better. But Yuuri had told Victor where he and his sister were going next on their so-called Holiday of a Lifetime; they’d come from New York, New York, and were now heading to Las Vegas, Nevada, before stopping off at Los Angeles, California, and then flying home. Somehow, Victor had tracked them down in Los Angeles. Yuuri wasn’t sure if he should have been flattered, terrified or impressed when Victor showed up at their hotel (Victor would later tell him that it was the nineteenth hotel he'd stormed into demanding the room number of one Yuuri Katsuki), and had compromised by being all three. The four days they’d spent in LA together were among the best memories that Yuuri had. At the end of each day he’d stayed up all night, writing it all down, frightened that he might forget the most perfect moments of his life. It had, after all, been The Holiday of a Lifetime.

It had been a whirlwind romance – but there is no grand hierarchy of love. A couple who have been together for fifty years can hold the same adoration for one another as two people who’ve shared a certain kind of look across a room over a split second. Three weeks after their chance meeting, Victor had paid for Yuuri to fly to him in St Petersburg, Russia, for a long weekend. A long weekend that had turned into a week, then a fortnight, then a month, until, finally, Victor had asked Yuuri to stay as a permanent fixture. Something about his bed being too cold without someone else in it and, besides, Makkachin would pine if Yuuri left. This had bought about the first major compromise in their relationship. Yuuri did not, in fact, want to move to Russia. He liked it in Japan. Japan was _home_ ; he understood everything there, had people who loved him there, felt somewhat less anxious walking the friendly streets of Hasetsu than he did diving into the thick stream of perpetual sightseers that flooded St Petersburg. He didn’t want to uproot himself and go through the fresh terror of trying to make new friends. But it was fight or flight. Stay in Russia and keep Victor, or go home and lose him. So he’d compromised; he’d bought himself a book of basic Russian phrases and had his belongings FedExed to Victor’s apartment. He had compromised by living in Russia in return for what he felt for sure was the Love of His Life. Another compromise had landed as a result of this resettlement; English was the only language they shared fluency in, and so that was the main language of Victor’s – and now Yuuri’s – apartment, with bits of Russian thrown in from Yuuri (to show he cared about Victor) and bits of Japanese thrown in from Victor (to show he cared about Yuuri). Makkachin was a multilingual dog and seemed to understand her masters no matter what language they spoke in.

The rest of the compromises had been comparably small, but each felt like a huge mountain for Yuuri – mountains that Victor could stride over as though they were anthills. Parties, for instance. Victor liked a good party, was a veritable social butterfly – a peacock butterfly, Yuuri would think – and Yuuri did not. But he would get dressed up anyway and let Victor show him off, and usually doused himself in champagne to help dull the sharp knife of anxiety that wedged itself between each vertebra and twisted, only Victor’s strong, steady arm around his waist stopping him from crumpling to the floor.

But he was happy to compromise for Victor. Hell, he’d prop up a ladder against the moon and climb up into the heavens to collect a particular star for Victor if the Russian asked. If, for some reason, Victor decided that he needed a second heart, Yuuri would have gladly torn out his own as some kind of paganistic offering. 

He would compromise on anything for Victor, would _do_ anything for him. But he would not go near an ice rink. Not ever. Not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's the prologue done! There a couple of things I want to comment on, just because I can rabbit on about anything, and also because this is an AU and I want to make sure that we're all on a similar page.
> 
> 1\. Yuuri's anxiety is somewhat worse in this than it is in the actual show. Not a whole lot, but still. Why? Well, my reasoning for this is that skating is a release for Yuuri. Without it (plus the reason that he quit skating which will be revealed in later chapters, but if you want a hint think Nancy and Tonya) his anxiety spiralled and spilled over. 
> 
> 2\. In this world, Phichit went to St Petersburg instead of Detroit. Why? Because this story is set in St Petersburg, and I wanted Phichit to be in it.
> 
> 3\. If you spot any errors in general, please feel free to point them out. It would be super helpful! 
> 
> 4\. I'm not sure when exactly this is set. If we're going by when Yuuri met Victor at Skate America, then this is either 2016 or 2014 (the last two times that Skate America was held in Chicago). But I'm going to say either it is 2014, but with Yurio still aged 15 or 2016 but with Yuuri and Victor as a couple of years younger than they are in the series. Why? Because this is an alternate universe so I can mess with their ages, and also it kind of feels right.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed it :)


	2. The Great Gift of Skating Incident

 

The apartment was warm in every sense of the word; the radiators were on high, the lights on the tree glowed in melting pastels, the air blushed with the soft spices of mulled wine, and Makkachin was plodding around proudly in a red knit jumper that Yuuri had managed to wrestle her into. A sprig of mistletoe had been pinned above every doorway and above every seat (“I need an excuse to kiss you all the time,” Victor had reasoned, to which Yuuri had rolled his eyes and told him he never needed an excuse). The buzz of traffic drifted in from the cold. The constant noise and movement of St Petersburg had annoyed Yuuri at first, had kept him awake and unable to focus on anything, but after living there for just under a year, the noise had become a sort of comfort. Yuuri liked things that were constant, like heartbeats and the way that certain stars twinkled in sequence.

Currently, Yuuri was sprawled on the couch. His thick blue jumper had ridden up enough to show the jutting creases of his hip bones, sharp-soft. His glasses were askew on his face, listing over the left edge of his nose like they’d had too much to drink. Any onlooker would have described his appearance as that of a content man. His chest rose and fell like a gentle tide, going nowhere fast.

He was almost asleep, his eyelids getting sticky-heavy, his eyelashes turning adhesive, when Victor cluttered into the room like a human tornado. Yuuri shot upright, putting a hand through his toddler-scribble hair in a vague attempt to make himself look presentable which, in hindsight, felt sort of silly in front of Victor. But he couldn’t help it. Victor was so… _perfect._ And Yuuri, well, _wasn’t_. Victor was a gold medallist, and Yuuri by comparison wasn’t even a fibre of the thread of the ribbon that a bronze medal would hang off of. He wasn’t even a certificate of participation. But Victor was gold. Always shining. Desirable. Precious.

Victor had what looked like a shoebox that had eaten too many mince pies tucked under his arm, and a smile on his face that made Yuuri fall in love with him all over again. The way his mouth made a sort of heart shape. The way it made Yuuri feel like it was just for him, that _he’d_ made that expression happen. The way it narrowed his world down to nothing more than him and Victor. Yuuri wasn't one to achieve great things, but when he made Victor smile it felt like he had.                                           

“Been hitting the January sales?” Yuuri asked, his voice clogged with sleep. “You’re dangerous armed with a credit card.” 

Victor rolled his eyes, his smile going to his cheeks, like he couldn’t quite button in his glee. He spilled himself into the couch at Yuuri’s side like a snow flurry and held out the box. His blue eyes held tiny galaxies.

“For you.” He pushed the box into Yuuri’s lap. Something in him danced, as it always did, and Yuuri would have called its current fit of movement a foxtrot or quickstep or perhaps a jive. Something mischievous, bright, breakneck. Victor tugged off his gloves and rubbed his hands together, out of the cold or out of anticipation, Yuuri couldn’t quite tell. “Open it, then.”

“For me? _Victor_ ,” Yuuri tried to look stern, but given the way Victor looked as though he were about to squeal and pinch the younger man’s cheeks he doubted it was working. “It was Christmas _two days ago._ You can’t keep spoiling me like this.”

“Can’t I? Why not?” He tilted his head to the side. Across the room, Makkachin mirrored him.

“ _Because_. It’s bad for me. I’ll get bratty.” 

“You’ll only get bratty if I stop buying you nice things. Which isn’t going to happen.” 

“ _Victor._ ” Yuuri shook his head. His hair, where he’d grown it out a little, fanned around him. Victor imagined it as gold and saw it turn into a halo. “Please. You’re not made of money.” 

Victor rolled his eyes and put his arm around Yuuri’s thin shoulders. Like a fish in a net, Yuuri knew he’d been caught. Instinctively, he tilted his head into the curve of Victor’s neck, shifted closer. Yuuri was undeniably a dog person, but he was catlike in his affection, rubbing his cheek against Victor’s skin (it was snowing outside, yet Victor’s skin was stove-warm, how was Victor always so warm?). He could feel Victor’s pulse against his forehead. Morse code for _safety_ and _home_ and _love_. Victor petted his hair down and Yuuri all but purred. _Purred_. He felt pink rash across his cheeks.

For a handful of moments that almost equated to a small forever, Victor just held him there. And then he pecked Yuuri’s forehead as he pulled away. He could be sly when he wanted to be. Victor was nothing if not determined. 

“Open it.” His eyes shone.  

Defeated, Yuuri sighed. Despite his protests a warm thrill of excitement rushed through him. Victor was a good gift-buyer. Yuuri’s mother had had a strong dislike of Victor as the man who had ‘stolen her baby boy away’ – that is, until Victor had bought her the right bottle of perfume. It had been floral and soft, with vanilla undertones, and cost more than any bottle of scented water really had any right to be costing. 

His fingers closed around the edge of the lid; it felt cold, and he could see a few patches of the white cardboard had gone grey with the damp of melting snowflakes. He tugged it off to reveal crinkled storm clouds of tissue paper. A confused smile rested on his face as he peeled it away. 

The first thing he saw was the blades. Bright and clear as mirrors. Sharp enough to draw blood. The spoke-like ridges at the end of them (toe picks, Yuuri knew they were called) were designed for spins – as opposed to the knife-like straight blades of clumpier, padded-out hockey skates. He had to stop himself from running his finger along one of them (a thin, faded white line dissecting his left index finger told him what would happen if he did). Or maybe that’s exactly what he should do, something to knock himself out of his stunned silence. He pulled more of the paper aside, his movements stiff and robotic, revealing the graceful yet hard curve of a leather boot, and then unveiling its twin. Each boot was only half-laced, ready to be threaded and tugged to the preferred tightness of the wearer. They were an unyielding black; full-stop black. 

Yuuri’s ribs turned into a cage, and then into a fist, and it squeezed squeezed _squeezed._ His fingertips jittered; tapped a blade, pulled at the laces, traced the toe of a boot. A wet noise fizzled in the back of his throat like a sparkler plunged into a bucket of cold water before it had the chance to burn out of its own accord. 

“Aw, it’s okay,” Victor cooed and Yuuri looked at him. He was smiling delightedly, the way he had when Yuuri had given in on moving permanently in, had said yes to the engagement. And then it hit him; Victor had deciphered his reaction as awed gratitude. Yuuri made himself blink, hard. He was not going to cry. He was not going to ruin this for Victor. “I’ve been planning to get you a pair for _ages_. You’ve got the body for it. The natural rhythm. Grace. I want to train you up so we can go all _Blades of Glory._ ” 

“Y-you. You shouldn’t have.” Yuuri shook his head but couldn’t shake himself out of it. He fixed his gaze on a small smudge on the window. “These look expensive. And you don’t even know if I’ll be any good.”

“Of course you will be. You’re perfect. In every way.” Victor squeezed Yuuri’s arm. “I was thinking we could go to the rink early tomorrow. It won’t be busy. In fact, we’ll probably be the only people on the ice.” 

Yuuri felt the back of his throat constrict in search of moisture, but it all seemed to have flooded to his eyes. It was through sheer force of will that he stopped his head from turning into a pendulum, shaking back and forth. He chased through the long, winding corridors of his mind, searching for something, anything. A way to let Victor down without hurting him. He never wanted Victor to hurt. He would set himself on fire just to keep Victor warm. 

“I, I need to open the shop tomorrow.” He was referring to the florist’s he worked at. It was the perfect job for Yuuri; it was never busier than, say, two people in the shop at once. And he liked being around the flowers, the way they all had their own personalities. He could be alone without really being  _alone_. He’d often pondered what kind of flower Victor would be, and had found himself torn between angel’s trumpet, yellow hyacinth, and forget-me-not. “Sorry, Vitya.” 

“What about in the evening?”

“I’m on a long shift.”

Victor reached across and shut the box, pulled it back into his lap with all the effort of a steam engine tugging along a too-heavy carriage. He puffed out a sigh. It sounded like broken glass, and Yuuri felt a fragment lodge itself in his heart. But he wouldn’t compromise on this. He couldn’t. Not even for Victor. 

“Yuuri.” The addressed couldn’t help but notice how tired Victor sounded, worn out. Had he done that? He hadn’t meant to. Had Victor finally had enough of him? He twisted his gold ring – more sincere for its simplicity – around his finger.

“Victor.”

“You. I.” Victor sighed again. Yuuri started a mental tally to add up all of the signs of impending heartbreak. He would go without a fight, he decided. When Victor came to his senses and didn’t want him anymore, Yuuri would let Victor go. “This isn’t about you, skating.”

Yuuri tore his gaze from the smudge on the window and looked up at his fiancé’s face. Guilt burnt him from the edges inwards and he looked away again, this time at the picked, peeling skin framing his fingernails. Victor looked _hurt_. Deeply and profoundly hurt. His forehead had creased in on itself, forming a script that Yuuri could only read as ‘you’ve let me down’. The lustre was gone from his eyes, the glass of them turning to ice that would crack and snap under Yuuri’s weight if he wasn’t careful. 

“It’s about me, skating. I.” Victor rubbed at his eyes with the corner of his fists. His voice was baby’s-breath soft. “It’s like I’m split between two worlds. There’s this world, in here, in this apartment, with you. And I love it. I love _you_. You’re kind and funny and sweet. And gorgeous, too. You know you are. And then there’s the other world. The ice rink. Skating. It’s as much a part of me as my eyes and my hands and my lips. If. If you can’t love that part of me, the skating part, then I don’t think you’ll ever _really_ be able to love me at all.” Yuuri’s heart lurched up into his throat. “I’m not asking you to come to competitions. You don’t like crowds. I get that. I do. You know I do. But, I’d just like you to _try_. Try to come into this other world with me. I want to share everything with you. I guess I thought if I bought you a pair of skates, it. It would show you how badly I wanted that, wanted _you_.”

Outside, the clouds had a grey-pink tinge to them. A sure sign of more snow to come. Yuuri shuddered and tried to disguise it as a shiver. 

He couldn’t bring himself to raise his eyes, to look at Victor, but he did peel his hands apart and squeeze one to Victor’s knee. Victor encompassed it with a hand of his own, and Yuuri released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. 

“I love you, Victor. I do. I _do_.” Yuuri bit his lip to stop himself from gushing bad metaphors. He took a moment to order the frantic buzz of thought. “Don’t doubt that. _Please_. Promise me you don’t doubt how much I love you.” 

There was a silence that stretched miles and it felt like a journey. Yuuri’s hand squeezed tighter around Victor’s knee, stopping a hair’s breadth short of pain. There was an icy burn in his lungs, like he’d swallowed Antifreeze. He could feel Victor’s eyes on him, chipping away at his skin and bones and guts to the Underneath, where it was all rotten. 

“I know. I know you love me.” Another sigh was added to Yuuri’s mental tally. “I just want you to _show_ it. Make me believe you love me.” Victor let go of Yuuri’s hand and it felt like falling. The Russian let time stretch out again, stretch out enough to make anyone other than Yuuri suspect him of cruelty. “I love you too.” 

There was so much Yuuri could have said and would, indeed, later wish he had said. Instead he stood up, affectionately poked the centre of Victor’s head, and mumbled something about needing to start cooking dinner (which was a lie, seeing as they still had a fridgeful of Christmas leftovers that would feed them for at least the next fortnight or so – Phichit had spent Christmas with them, making for a multicultural feast of Thai, Russian and Japanese delicacies that didn’t quite go together but did, in all the ways that mattered). 

He felt a fresh wave of guilt as Makkachin plodded after him. He didn’t want Victor to be on his own.

He didn’t feel right again until half an hour later, when he was stood staring at the bare hob as though expecting dinner to magically appear. But he couldn’t get himself to move, couldn’t hear over the stomping footfall of his heart in his chest. _Victor was getting tired of him_ went around and around in his head, written in neon, being spelt out across the sky by a biplane. He felt sick. Until, that is, Victor walked into the kitchen with the silent grace to be expected of a champion figure skater and, without any kind of warning, twined his arms around Yuuri’s waist from behind. Yuuri let himself melt backwards into the embrace. Victor tucked his chin tight above Yuuri’s head and yes, Yuuri thought, this is what _home_ means. 

Maybe, Yuuri thought, he wouldn’t let Victor go without a fight after all. It was okay to be selfish sometimes. About the things that matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. Victor misinterprets Yuuri's reaction to the skates through sheer force of will. He's so desperate for Yuuri to be happy, and also he is so used to being number one that he doesn't really take time to consider that other peoples wants might deviate from his.
> 
> 2\. If you didn't get the reference, Blades of Glory is a comedy movie about two guys who pair skate with each other that came out in like 2007.
> 
> 3\. In this AU, Yuuri quit skating as a teenager. He hasn't told anyone, not even Victor, that he used to skate, so Victor doesn't realise that buying Yuuri skates brings back bad memories. 
> 
> 4\. When Yuuri is thinking about what flower Victor would be, I picked angel's trumpet because there is more to it than meets the eye (although beautiful, it is also deadly poisonous), yellow hyacinth because they are beautifully elegant (I think) but also (according to Google) they symbolise 'playfulness and a sporty attitude'. I also chose forget-me-nots because they are the colour of Victor's eyes and, to Yuuri, Victor is totally unforgettable.
> 
> 5\. I put in the part where Victor says all of these nice things about Yuuri and then ends it with 'but you know that' to show that Victor doesn't quite understand what it's like in Yuuri's head. Just because Victor thinks all of these great things about Yuuri he assumes that everyone else (including Yuuri himself) does too. He loves Yuuri so much that it doesn't even cross his mind that Yuuri might see himself as anything less than perfect. He doesn't say the things Yuuri needs to hear because he just assumes that Yuuri already knows them. This comes down to the whole communication thing that I'm trying to have as a theme in this story; he doesn't stop to ask Yuuri how he feels about anything, and even if he did, he probably wouldn't take it on board because he's lived in this solitary sort of bubble for so long that he doesn't really consider the idea that how he sees things might be wrong. His heart is in the right place, though.
> 
> 6\. Yuuri thinks he isn't good enough for Victor, and partly thinks that he's just a placeholder until Victor finds someone better. That's why he thinks that he would just let Victor go if Victor decided he didn't want him anymore - he loves Victor so much that he doesn't want to hold him back, and would see it as a selfish thing to do, but at the same time he's terrified of losing Victor. So both of the boys love each other to the moon and back, but because of shitty communication neither can quite bring themselves to fully believe it or feel secure about it.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Next chapter will feature Number One Victuuri Shipper Phichit, a distracted Victor, and a Yakov who is quite frankly too old for this shit.


	3. Words of Wisdom

 

 

“I can’t put it off any longer, can I?”

“I’m afraid not.” 

Yuuri gulped down acrid air. He took off his glasses. Sometimes things looked better if he couldn’t see them at all. 

The squeak of plastic on metal, a hyperventilation of sound, was a constant. Yuuri might have found it annoying but he liked constants, and nothing was more constant than the failsafe formula of ‘Phichit = hamsters’. He looked at the blur that comprised the white wire cage in the corner of his best friend’s bedroom and wondered which of the three hamsters was currently making use of the running wheel. 

“You’ll be okay, Yuuri.” Phichit patted his friend’s back. His affectionate concern was sincere, if somewhat confused. All that mattered to Phichit was that Yuuri was hurting, was afraid, and he wanted to make it better. “You won’t make a fool of yourself or anything. I mean, I’m sure Victor fell lots his first time on the ice.” He frowned, thinking. “Actually, no, I can’t imagine Victor ever falling. But. I fell loads when I started out! I still do sometimes. So does Yurio. Not that he’d ever let you know it.” 

“I’m not scared of _falling_.” Yuuri rubbed at his eyes. At risk of sounding like a tantruming teenager, he added; “you don’t _understand_.” 

Great. Phichit was looking at him as though he were protesting that eyeliner was a perfectly fine thing for a man to wear (which it is). Phichit crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow at Yuuri, both of them sat facing each other, cross-legged on the skater’s bed. Yes, Yuuri knew he sounded like he was being unreasonable, and he probably _was_ being unreasonable, but he couldn’t help it. 

“Maybe if you told me what was wrong, I _would_ understand it.” When Yuuri gave no response beyond ducking his head, Phichit sighed. _Great. Phichit’s getting tired of me too._ “Well, why did you say yes if you didn’t want to do it?” 

“He bought me a pair of skates, Phi.” Yuuri shook his head, put his glasses back on. “He was so excited. You should have seen the look on his face when I told him no – it was worse than when I flew home last month for a weekend, when he dropped me off at the airport.” That, however, was a happy memory, of Victor hugging him tight and pressing kisses all over his face as though mapping it out for memory, fussing with his hair; Yuuri had never felt so precious, so treasured. But the expression on Victor’s face had been one of grief, of being in a labyrinth and hearing your rope get cut. Even that, though, paled in comparison to the Grand Gift of Skating Incident of the previous week. 

“It was _worse_ than that?” Phichit’s eyes bloomed outwards in disbelief. “Impossible. I spent most of that weekend in your apartment making sure he didn’t take his toaster in the bath. He was _miserable_ without you.” He paused a moment, looking Yuuri over. He noticed things that only a best friend could; the perpetual movement of Yuuri’s fingers rubbing against one another as they picked at skin, the small dents on Yuuri’s lower lip where he kept biting, the way Yuuri’s chest went in-out-in- _in_ -oouuuttt-in. Phichit nodded to himself. “He was so scared of you not coming back at all, y’know?”

“What?” Yuuri looked up from his lap. Phichit didn’t have to lie to him to make him feel better – _Victor_? Scared that _Yuuri_ wouldn’t come back? Impossible. He shook his head. Victor was home now, and he’d walk to the ends of the Earth to go wherever home was. Victor knew that. 

“It’s true! It is. He was _pining._ What? He _was_.” Phichit flung his hand to his chest in a show of earnest. “Anyway. I guess my point is, Victor cares. About you. A lot. And whatever happens on the ice won’t change that.” 

The squeaking of the hamster wheel stopped and the only sound was the soft, heated whirring of Phichit’s laptop which never seemed to be turned off. Outside the window snow was coming down in long, drowsy yawns; it had been pretty much non-stop snow since the Grand Gift of Skating Incident eight days ago. Yesterday, Victor had forgotten to put his gloves on before going out. The result? Victor prowling in and pouncing on his poor, unsuspecting fiancé by way of shoving his hands up Yuuri’s shirt; the cold had forced a noise out of Yuuri that had Victor wheezing with adoring, if slightly evil, laughter which Yuuri had happily joined in with after getting revenge via the method of merciless tickling. 

Yuuri, eyes shut, smiled at the memory and Phichit beamed at his friend – he could always tell when Yuuri was thinking of Victor, and he found it perfectly precious. Winter sunshine burst through the thick fog of clouds and glinted off of the plain gold band that had become a permanent fixture on Yuuri’s finger. Somewhere out there in St Petersburg – probably at his base rink – a matching one was adorning Victor. It was a thought that Yuuri often found himself thinking, and one that he was quite happy to get lost in. He could shut his eyes and imagine an invisible thread tethering one ring to the other. They were connected. Always. 

“How did he get you to say yes, anyway?” 

“He just. Kept asking. He’s booked the rink for tomorrow morning, and he called up my boss to demand I get the day off.” Yuuri blanched just thinking about it, about the way that Victor just didn’t seem to understand that, as important as he was, he was not more important than Yuuri’s boss when it came to matters of employment. But, of course, Victor being Victor, he had managed it with his usual cool, easy charm. “And I couldn’t just refuse – it means so much to him. So, unless you feel like pushing me in front of a bus, I don’t think I really have a choice.” 

Phichit snorted at the perceived melodrama of his friend. The look of smirked amusement washed off his face like a sandcastle being erased by the tide when he saw that Yuuri’s eyes were wet. He reached out and squeezed Yuuri’s arm, catching the Japanese man with a warm smile. Yuuri found himself returning it, out of a sense of obligation if nothing else. 

The whisper-squeak of the hamster wheel started to throb out again.

“You need to talk to Victor, Yuuri. Tell him what’s going in that head of yours.”

“I know.” Yuuri said, because he did.

 

* * *

 

 

Victor watched as Yuri – or Yurio, to distinguish the teenager from his fiancé – landed a triple axel with the ease of someone simply strolling down the street. He gave a small clap as he picked his brain for some criticism to call out. He couldn’t let the kid think _too_ much of himself.

“The movement needs to flow through your entire body, Yuri.” He called out, the words coming with powdered-sugar puffs of condensed air. “Right to the tips of your fingers. I want to see a million different parts, moving as one. Your body is a corps de ballet. I should be able to just look at one finger, and instantly know what emotion you are trying to portray.” 

Yurio stuck his tongue out as he rounded the curved corner of the rink to where Victor was stood. A small spray of ice spat into the air as he halted, hands biting into his hips. Two strands of hair that usually got in his face were tied together round the back of his head, a girlish sort of accent that suited Yurio, contrasting perfectly with the hard, biting steel of his almost perpetual glare. 

“That jump was damn perfect and you know it.”

“Do I?” Victor gave him a bright, you-ain’t-shit smile. “A judge wouldn’t.”

Yurio scowled and sped off again. _He doesn’t glide across the ice,_ Victor thought, _he cuts into it_. Victor believed that every skater treated the ice differently. For example, he saw himself as being someone who painted across the ice, and Phichit as someone who sang across it. He ached, the need visceral and deep, to see how Yuuri would treat it. You could learn a lot from the way someone skated, could learn more from one length of the rink than from hours and hours of conversation. Anyone who saw Yurio walking along the street, in the right light, might perceive as being a gentle, sweet young boy – an artsy type, maybe a poet, but definitely someone with a big heart; Victor, however, knew that he was fierce, a tiger made of fire and ice – and he knew that from watching the fifteen-year-old skate. 

Yuuri would write poetry with his blades, Victor speculated, or maybe cast spells with them. But he had to _know_. He had to know his Yuuri before Yuuri could truly be _his_. Besides, there was a niggling voice in the back of Victor’s mind, gnawing away acidically at the back of his throat and spreading like a cancer to his chest and stomach, coiling and choking. He’d never really _had_ anyone. Not in any meaningful sense. And Yuuri being so uninterested (no, that was sugar-coating it, he was _repulsed_ ) by the one thing that had been a constant constant in Victor’s life made the Russian feel fundamentally insecure. It felt like having a fiancé who couldn’t bear to look into his eyes, or listen to his voice. One day, Victor realised, he might have to choose between Yuuri and the ice. Victor hated himself for thinking that Yuuri might not win that contest. 

He took off around the rink, trying to skate it out. If he did indeed paint across the ice, then this was a Jackson Pollock. 

“You know, Vitya,” called a gruff-warm voice from behind the solid fence-like barrier of the rink, “the ice is good, but it is not a person.” 

Victor stopped with a stumble. A _stumble?_ He was The Victor Nikiforov. He didn’t stumble. Not ever. Not on the ice. He glanced over his shoulder with a ‘hm?’ and a look like a recently erased whiteboard. Yakov was stood there, bundled up like a pass-the-parcel. He patted his palm against the barrier and Victor glided over. On his periphery, he could see Yurio watching him whilst studiously pretending not to watch him. 

“Skating might make you feel better, Victor.” Yakov said lowly, waving his hand at Yurio as a sign to carry on, that this did not concern him. “But it’s not the same as talking something out. What’s wrong?” 

“Wrong? Who said anything was wrong?” Victor looked around himself as though searching out the source of such allegations. 

“Well, the look on your face for one. You look like you’ve just been forced to kick a puppy. No. You look like you _are_ a kicked puppy.” Yakov’s lips quirked at the dignified pout on Victor’s face. “For two, I’ve never seen you go at the ice like that when everything’s been hunky dory. For three, you stumbled in a step sequence. One that a kid could handle. You’re distracted. And whatever is distracting you isn’t good.” 

Victor raked a hand through his hair, the action not quite angry but bubbling, a pot left on the stove for too long, the red hot handle of a door faced with fire on the other side. He put his hands on the barrier, the action an almost-slap that stung like ice on a burn. Maybe talking to Yakov would help. It’s what a coach is there for, after all. Even if it didn’t help, it definitely wouldn’t hurt.

“It’s Yuuri.” He sighed and his voice was sand stuck to red skin.

“Yuri?” Yakov squinted out across the ice at his younger student, who was occupied with piecing together a new step sequence. It was always _new_ and _fast_ and _the best_ with Yurio. “What’s the little punk done now?” 

“Huh?” Victor followed Yakov’s line of sight. “Oh, no. Not Yurio. _Yuuri_. My Yuuri.” Electric thrills hissed through him at the ‘my’. Some people might have called it possessiveness, others love; Victor preferred not to name it, but revelled in the visceral burn of it nonetheless. Yuuri was _his._ “It’s nothing.” 

“A lovers’ tiff, eh?” Victor felt a blush get its claws into his cheeks as Yakov rolled his eyes and shook his head. It was easy for Yakov, who was somewhat cynical and jaded in terms of romance. As far as Yakov was concerned, love was nothing more than a petty distraction. Something that felt good for maybe a moment and then ached for the rest of forever. Better off never to feel love at all, than to feel it once and then live out the rest of your hollow days in heartbreak. “Buy him some flowers. Do guys give flowers to each other? I don’t know. Maybe some chocolates. I would say bake him a cake, but you actually want to win him back, I assume.” 

“We haven’t broken up.” The words came out in a garbled rush. Desperate. “There’s no, winning back, to be done. It’s just.” 

“It’s just?” 

“He won’t come to the rink. Ever. I mean, he’s coming tomorrow, in the morning, for the first time.” Victor made a fizzling sound of frustration that was synched to Yurio’s layback Bielmann. The teenager was a watercolour blur. “He’s all wound up about it. On-edge, I guess. I don’t think he even slept last night.” 

“Far be it for me to offer relationship advice, but have you actually _asked_ him what’s wrong?” Yakov winced as Yurio stumbled and hit the ice chin-first. “Get up, Yuri,” he called out, “you’re not leaving here until you’ve got it perfect. You’re staying here all night if you have to. I don’t have any plans.” He turned back to Victor. “Well, have you asked him?”

Victor shifted his weight from one leg to the other, letting himself drift slightly from side to side with the gentle pressure. Communication had never exactly been his strong point; he was all hands and all mouth when it came to Yuuri, but never really in the ways that mattered. It was easy, being The Victor Nikiforov, for Victor to assume that he was the centre of everything. Of course, he didn’t think this overtly, wasn’t one of those asshole celebrities who thinks that the moon only goes around the Earth because everything rotates around them. But it was there, subliminally, subconsciously. Victor couldn’t remember a time when there weren’t reporters knocking on his door or endless scores of people tripping over themselves to praise him. He was the centre of more worlds than just his own, and his communication skills had suffered for it. He’d just sort of assumed that if something was wrong with Yuuri, then he’d just _know_. It would be instinct. And the fact that it wasn’t was coming as an unpleasant surprise. It felt like he was mid-jump, airborne, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to land it safely but being totally unable to do anything about it. The crash was coming, made all the more frightening because Victor could see it on the horizon. He was fairly sure that the people on the Titanic enjoyed their short voyage all the more for not knowing that an ice berg was coming.

Eyes down on the ice, Victor shook his head, once. He felt like a child being scolded for staying up too late. 

“There you go then, idiot boy.” Yakov sounded every bit as exasperated as he felt. Underneath it, however, Victor was sure he heard the unmistakable warmth of long-suffering affection. “Ask him. Problem solved.” 

“But what could it possibly _be_ , Yakov? It’s just the ice.” 

“ _Vitya_.” The coach tutted and shook his head. He shut his eyes like just looking at such a moron caused him physical pain. “You of all people should know that there is nothing _just_ about the ice.” Yakov lifted his hand and semi-reached out, as though to pat Victor’s arm. But then he thought better of it and dropped his hand back down again, a semi-colon of movement. “Now we’ve got that sorted, back to practice. You’ll be staying an hour later than planned.” 

“What? Why?” 

“You’ve been wasting time chatting.” 

As Victor glided off muttering something overly dramatic about grave injustices and it being the winter of his discontent, he was sure he saw Yakov smile at him, caught the glint of his eye like a blade edge. Yakov drove them hard, but it was only because he cared. And Victor wouldn’t have had it any other way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, Victor was sat on the couch watching television when Yuuri emerged from the kitchen (after an incident that had left them with all but one mug between them, Yuuri had decided to take charge of doing the washing up) and dropped himself down in Victor’s lap. _He must be tired_ , Victor thought as his body curled around his fiancé’s. A natural reaction. 

Yuuri touched his nose to Victor’s jaw as Victor bundled him up tight in his arms. Victor pressed a kiss to Yuuri’s chin, his cheek, his nose, before finally landing on his lips. Warm. Rose gold. _Home_. 

_There,_ Victor thought, _everything’s fine._ And so all of the talking, the asking, he’d planned to do did not, in fact, happen. Because everything was alright. Everything was just fine. And asking questions could only make things less fine. You shouldn't go picking at scabs. 

Yuuri, who had had words on his lips for Victor since his talk with Phichit that morning, fell asleep right there in the castle of Victor’s arms, his words fading with him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter:
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. The story Phichit tells about Victor being home alone for a long weekend is there for two reasons. Firstly, because Phichit wants to reassure his friend, and I thought that this was a good way to do that whilst showing Phichit's overwhelming support of their relationship. Secondly, because I wanted to show that Victor has similar insecurities about their relationship as Yuuri does. Yuuri, of course, dismisses Phichit's anecdote because he's put Victor up on such a high pedestal that the idea of Victor being worried that he'll leave just doesn't compute. Much as with Victor towards Yuuri in the previous chapter, Yuuri just assumes that Victor knows the things that, in fact, Victor really needs to hear Yuuri say.
> 
> 2\. If Yuuri is panicked (for lack of a better word) about going to the rink, why did he say yes? Because, to Yuuri, nothing matters more than Victor's happiness which, although sweet, is actually kind of unhealthy here because it is in part driven by an inescapable and perpetual fear of Victor breaking up with him.
> 
> 3\. Victor sees the ice as a part of himself, which is why Yuuri's 'repulsion' to it has him so shook. Hating the ice, to Victor, is as good as Yuuri hating a large part of Victor himself, and that is really quite frightening to Victor, who thinks Yuuri hangs the moon.
> 
> 4\. Victor thinking of himself as The Victor Nikiforov isn't just an ego thing (although it is a little bit). It's who he has been told he is from a pretty young age. He holds himself to an unobtainably/unsustainably high standard, which adds to the communications issue because admitting that something might be wrong is like failure, and The Victor Nikiforov doesn't fail. It also means that he puts himself under a heck of a lot of pressure.
> 
> 5\. In this story, I'm writing Victor as being quite possessive of Yuuri, which you will see more of later on. Although he has the best of intentions, it is not the healthiest thing in the world for either of them. As previously mentioned, in this world Victor has never had a real relationship - maybe he's never even really felt loved - and now that he's got Yuuri he's determined to hold on with everything that he's got, but at the same time it makes him view Yuuri almost as something passive even if he doesn't quite realise it. Think back to the prologue; Victor, after a one-night-stand, tracked Yuuri down halfway across America. That's not exactly normal behaviour. 
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry for all of the super-long notes, but it sort of helps me to write them out so I feel like I semi-know what I'm doing, and I thought some of you guys maybe might find it interesting to know my thought process behind some of the aspects of the story? Anyway. Apologies.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope that you liked it!
> 
> Next chapter will feature Victor getting slapped in the face by an unexpected backbone of steel.


	4. On Thin Ice

 

Victor wasn’t sure if it was physically possible for a human being to go grey, but Yuuri had somehow managed it. Not just chalky pale (he’d seen that on Yurio before, after ignoring his advice and doing five spins too many straight after lunch) or colourless (he’d seen that on Yakov, when Victor himself had fallen on the ice as a junior and found that he couldn’t get up again), but _grey_. Not the silver of Victor’s hair, or the washed out colour of the sea on a stormy day – but proper gravestone grey. _Yes_ , Victor thought, _that’s it; gravestone grey_. 

It looked as if Yuuri might bolt at any given second. Or maybe projectile vomit. Or pass clean out. But no. Victor wouldn’t let that happen, through sheer force of will if nothing else. Today was The Day. He was _finally_ going to get his Yuuri out on the ice. _His_. 

He had an arm looped around his partner’s waist, half an act of affection and half an act of enforcement. Yuuri was stumbling along, happy to find comfort in having the left side of his face smooshed to Victor’s sweater. Victor could have been walking him to his execution, and he still would have found time to appreciate the simple pleasure of feeling the softness of Victor’s sweater and the solid realness of muscle underneath, of breathing in the smell (frost with vague hints of peppermint and touches of distant pine, as though bought in on the breeze) that meant _home_. 

Yuuri forced himself to keep walking, _one foot in front of the other and again, one foot in front of the other_. He had to rush, taking two bunny steps to every one of Victor’s grand, swanlike strides. His heart took four great leaps for every bunny step, whilst his lungs reached out then retracted in slow motion. _Just focus on walking, one foot in front of the other_ , he told himself. He tried to search out the sound of Victor’s heartbeat but every time he wrapped his fingers around it, it got swept away by the continuous roar of the scrambling streets. If they had been on the gentle streets of Hasetsu Victor’s heartbeat would have been as clear as the gentle sway of the Earth as it turned. He wanted to ask Victor to slow down but then no, what if that became a metaphor? 

The ice rink loomed ahead of them, looking fresh and metallic and alien. Like a UFO had crash-landed in the centre of St Petersburg. Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to make the darkness dance, and he pictured a mental list of all of the places he would rather be: amongst the Disney-esque florality of the florist’s where he worked, his fingers working deftly and certainly around stalks and stems, knowing precisely what flower went with what because that was his domain, it was safe and constant; curled up in bed with Victor, the older man’s arms wrapped around him like a seatbelt, listening to the Russian purr pretty things in Japanese that, although disjointed and not quite grammatically correct, were intensely heartfelt; playing in the park with Makkachin, watching her bound after Victor like a worried mother chasing an unruly child; back at _home_ home, inhaling a bowl of his mother’s _katsudon_ which tasted exactly how a hug would taste if, indeed, hugs were edible things. No sooner had he called up these images than they would dissolve into _something else_. A building not unlike the one physically before him, but on a far smaller scale. Sort of like a warehouse painted silver. Every step closer took him a step closer to _there_ and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to come back. He didn’t want to leave Victor behind. He didn’t want to lose _home_ and _safety_ and _this is where I’m supposed to be_. Not again. 

Victor didn’t realise that Yuuri had stopped walking until he felt himself being tugged backwards, as though he’d been chained to a deadweight. He turned over his shoulder and frowned. Gravestone grey had somehow blurred into gravestone grey _er_. With the force of his sudden stop the carry-all (coated in the colours of the Russian flag) bumped harshly against his back. He could feel a toe pick dig in, soft-sharp. It matched the jolt of his heart as he took Yuuri in. 

“Yuuri?” He touched a gloved fingertip to Yuuri’s chin and watched in a dull sort of horror as the Japanese boy – because, yes, right now he looked more like a boy than a man, like a child lost in a shopping mall searching achingly for his mother – flinched away. “ _Luchik_.”   _My little ray of light._ There was a bleed in Victor’s voice. Internal. “What’s the matter?” 

He put his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders, capping them, and squeezed gently, his thumbs indenting commas. He bent slightly at the knees to be eye-level with his fiancé, searching for something to anchor onto, something solid and tangible to help him _understand_. But Yuuri was just gazing blindly ahead. He was looking at Victor, but Victor was sure that Yuuri wasn’t quite seeing him. 

“ _Luchik_?” 

That seemed to be the counter-curse to break the spell, because suddenly Yuuri was blinking and swallowing hard, like his mouth was full of water but at the same time it felt too dry. In that moment, that was precisely how Yuuri felt – too much but nowhere near enough. Never enough. Not for himself, not for anyone else, and _certainly_ not for Victor. 

“I can’t do this, Victor.” His voice came out as a high whine, a knife scraping quickly along a thin piece of electric wiring, stripping it bare, useless. “Please. Please don’t make me do this. Don’t make me, Victor, please, please.” Each word came out in its own sphere of breath, a star bursting out only to instantly go supernova. “ _Vitya_. Tell me I don’t have to. Don’t make me. Vitya, Victor, please. _Please._ ” 

Victor stumbled backwards, and it had nothing to do with the iced-over snow underfoot. He wasn’t sure what hurt him more; that Yuuri was trying to get out of skating when he knew it meant so much to Victor, or that he was looking up at Victor as though he thought the Russian had it in him to _hurt_ his fiancé. Hadn’t Victor shown Yuuri that he was precious? Hadn’t he looked after him? He could remember one night a few weeks back. They’d been at a bar. Victor had left for two minutes to use the restroom and had come back to find Yuuri being spoken to by an older man, built like an ox. Victor hadn’t waited to listen to what was being said, but could see the drowning look of nauseating discomfort on his fiancé’s face, could see where this man’s meaty hands were gnawing into _his_ Yuuri’s skin (one on Yuuri’s shoulder, the other at his hip) and had been flooded with a storm of red. The man had gone home minus a tooth and plus a black eye. Victor, who was not a violent person by any stretch of the imagination, would have done anything to protect Yuuri, to make him safe. And _this_. This was how Yuuri repaid him? By looking up at Victor as though he suspected instant agony? It was a kick in the gut, and one that sent ripples outwards in tidal waves of white-hot pain. 

A million different things spun around in his head, different responses he could make. He knew what he should have done. He should have curved his arm around Yuuri’s back, held him as though Yuuri was treasure and he was the chest. He should have pressed snowflake kisses to Yuuri’s eyelids. He should have said _of course you don’t have to do it, Yuuri, I would never make you do anything you don’t want to do_. But no. He was hurting. He felt betrayed, at a loss, and _damn it_ , Victor had never been told _no_ before. 

“We’re going skating, Yuuri.” He said it briskly, the way he would tell Makkachin that they were about to go for a walk, and it invited no resistance. “Of all the things I do for you, I think you can do this one small thing for me.” 

And so Victor strode forwards, towards the rink, his heart on standstill. It only started to beat again when he heard the monsoon patter of Yuuri’s feet as the younger man rushed to catch up with him. 

 _There_ , Victor thought, _problem solved._

 

* * *

 

 

The skates were too tight. The leather was hard and unyielding, and it bit into Yuuri’s heel, squeezed his toes together in its unforgiving fist. They would give, though, eventually. Yuuri knew that. All he could think of was how cold it was. He could taste the metallic edge of the ice in the air. Yuuri had never tried arsenic, but he imagined it could not be too dissimilar. 

The bench in the locker room was too hard, but in a flat way that felt sort of like sitting on blunt razors. He reached down to lace his boots, but every time he plucked up the lace it slipped through his shaking fingers like so many grains of sand. He hoped Victor would perceive it as shivering from the cold, not shaking. 

As the lace wriggled free of his fingertips for the fifth time, Victor – already booted up and ready to go – dropped to his knees on the rubbery surface of the floor. Quickly, but with all the care of fastening a diamond necklace, he fastened Yuuri’s skates. 

“Good? Not too tight?” Victor’s voice was soft, and he kept one hand cupping the curved toe of Yuuri’s left boot. It felt the same as holding hands, to Victor at least. Yuuri nodded, and Victor couldn’t have held in a smile even if he had wanted to. Today was The Day, and it was going to be _perfect_. “Good. Let’s go then. Walking on the blades isn’t as hard as it looks. Well, it’s easier than walking in heels. Just try not to think too hard about it-” 

But Yuuri was already on his feet, balanced perfectly on his blades. The surface of the skin on his face kept twitching, especially his cheeks, like minor earthquakes were happening in his brain. Or, more accurately, like he was approximately two seconds away from throwing up. 

Victor pouted a little at being cut short – he liked to play the coach – and put an arm around Yuuri’s waist. He would not let him fall. Not ever. Not in any sense of the word. 

The rink itself was empty but it felt like it was full of ghosts. It was ringed by empty plastic stadium seats that only ever got totally filled when Victor was skating. The ice was sleek and unlined, untouched, and to Yuuri it looked like too much. It looked like a tundra waiting to be claimed or tamed lest it claim you. It looked, to Yuuri, like a great gaping mouth ready to swallow up all colour. He twisted his hands in Victor’s plain black t-shirt, clinging. 

He wanted to talk out, cry out. A scream was burning in his stomach and clawing up his throat. But he didn’t make a sound. He already had done, on the way over to the rink, and all it had done was make Victor look at him as though Yuuri had slid a knife through his throat. He would put himself through this if he absolutely had to, and seeing as it seemed that Victor would be angry with him if he didn’t do it, it more than met that criteria. It crossed Yuuri’s mind briefly that _hey this isn’t right_ , but he shook that thought right out his head. Victor was _everything_. And Yuuri? Yuuri was like the lines cut into the ice – a dime a dozen and easily erased.

Victor walked him to an opening at the barrier. He smiled down at Yuuri and it felt something like ice melting. The way his eyes glistened. The slight heart shape of his mouth. The warmth. _Oh_ , Yuuri thought, _shit. This is love._  

“I’ll step on first, and then I’ll help you on.” Victor pressed a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead, letting the melting glow of his lips linger on his fiancé’s chilly skin. He made a note that he really ought to buy Yuuri a hat. Maybe a blue one. He was pretty sure he could find one with _Victor Nikiforov_ on it, from an unofficial fansite. And then he could add, in permanent marker, _Property of._ “Right. It’ll be fine. I promise.”

He stepped onto the ice and it felt like he was breathing into himself. He did a small spin, just to show that he could, and then set his prize-winning ( _Skating’s Sexiest Man_ champion four years in a row, according to one magazine) on Yuuri. He let it melt and soften into something intimate, something designed especially for Yuuri, when he saw the genuine look of panic on the younger man’s face. It wasn’t frustrating him this time, no, in fact, he was currently finding it rather endearing. _That’s it_ , Victor thought, _he’s getting so nervous because he wants to impress me._ His heart stretched in blissfully painful ways. 

For a extended moment it was impossible for Victor to shift his gaze from Yuuri. From his pink cheeks, from the gentle mess of his hair, from the beautiful slither of his lips, from the profoundly complex brown of Yuuri’s eyes (in the right light, there were flecks of gold and amethyst in them). But then Victor’s smile shifted into a showman’s smile, a The Victor Nikiforov smile, and he reached a hand out to his fiancé. A bridge. An olive branch. A promise. 

Yuuri, because there was nothing else he could do, met him halfway. Technically, he thought, he was now on the ice, seeing as his hand was hovering mid-air above it. He supposed it didn’t feel so bad, not when Victor was grasping his hand so tightly, like he was trying to meld them into one continuous being. He even dared look up and offer Victor a smile. This was it. He was giving Victor _everything_ in ways that he’d never understood he could give things before. 

Victor took Yuuri’s other hand and eased him onto the ice. He’d had it all planned out in his head, how this session was going to go; get Yuuri on the ice, give him a safety talk, teach him to walk on the ice, and then finish up with a victory glide around the perimeter, arms around Yuuri so that the Japanese man could experience what flying felt like. But all of that went out of the proverbial window, and Victor found himself hauling Yuuri into a bone-crushing hug, lifting the shorter man clean off the ground in a delighted spin. When he put Yuuri down, however, he found that it was impossible to separate Yuuri from his t-shirt. Yuuri had padlocked his hands in Victor’s shirt, white-knuckle tight, had hugged his knees around the outside edge of Victor’s and refused to remove his face from the compact refuge of Victor’s chest. He screwed his eyes shut and gasped Victor in and forced himself to think _homehomehome._ He couldn’t breathe and this wasn’t helped by his current face-stuffed-into-fabric position but he didn’t care. _Homehomehome._  

“ _Luchik?_ ” Victor purred warmly, petting a hand through Yuuri’s hair. His other hand rested gentle-strong on Yuuri’s hip, his arm rounding Yuuri’s back. “I won’t let you fall. Not ever. Not for anything. Even if the world started to tear itself apart beneath our feet, I wouldn’t let go of you.” It scared Victor slightly, how much he found himself meaning it. He hadn’t been sure that he did until he’d actually said it. “I promise.” 

Yuuri looked up at Victor without removing his face from the Russian’s chest, very much resembling a mole poking its head out of its hole for the first time after a long winter. Victor locked eyes with him and it was like a fishing hook had embedded itself in the Russian man's stomach and he was suddenly being reeled forwards. Here he was with the two most important things in his universe; Yuuri was in his arms and there was ice under his feet. What more could he ever want? 

He started to move along the ice. He hooked his legs loosely around Yuuri’s at the calves, so that Yuuri moved with him. Victor had gone out of his way to be gentle, had envisaged the steady beat of an angel’s wing to pace his gliding to, but as soon as they left the edge of the rink, Yuuri ducked his head back down. 

Maybe it was wrong of him, but Victor liked it. Liked the way Yuuri was clinging to him. Liked the way that he was the only guarantee of Yuuri's safety. It was definitely wrong of him, but Victor _adored_ Yuuri being dependant on him. _Mine_. 

And then it all came crashing down. With a sound as simple as a hiccup. 

They had reached the centre of the rink – or, rather, Victor had and Yuuri just so happened to be attached to him – when Yuuri couldn’t hold it in anymore. It started with a hiccup, and then a whimper. The sound of a wilting flower shedding a dead petal, the cataclysmic roar of it hitting the floor a subjectively loud noise. It was small in big ways, and it made Victor stop. It made him stop and notice something – there was a definite wet patch seeping through his shirt. 

 _Fuck_ , Victor thought. _Yuuri is crying._  

If there were three things that Victor hated most in the world, they were probably (or were currently, at least): people crying in front of him, Yuuri being sad, and Yuuri being sad because of _him_. And, in that moment, all three were happening in unison. 

He peeled Yuuri from himself and stepped back to assess the damage. What he had taken for a blush, or perhaps a reaction to the cold, had spread so that Yuuri’s face was a blotchy red, the skin irritated by the salt of tears. His lips – now vaguely bloody from nervous chewing – kept wobbling as more small-big sounds escaped, animalistic in their desperation. Yuuri couldn’t stop shaking. His chest was heaving but, Victor realised, not with the threat of vomit but with the ache of scrambling to get oxygen in. Yuuri, _his_ Yuuri, was having a panic attack. And it was all his, Victor’s, fault. 

“Yuuri. _Yuuri_.” He curved his hand over the soft round of Yuuri’s cheek. “It’s okay. Just breathe. Breathe with me.” 

Even though it made no real sense, Yuuri shook his head from side to side which only served to make him dizzier. Everything was a no. _No no no nonono._ _Why couldn’t Victor have just left me alone_ , Yuuri thought. Why had Victor insisted on doing this? Why hadn’t he seen Yuuri crying on the way here and realised that this was a bad idea? Yuuri trusted Victor in the most primal of ways, and that Victor would throw that trust in his face like it meant nothing at all made Yuuri feel sick. It made his world tilt a few degrees the wrong way. Who could he trust to care about him if Victor didn’t? Everything was collapsing on in itself in frantic tides. 

And then something happened that had happened before to Yuuri, several times, but never from Victor. Victor snapped. He had tried so _hard_ , damn it, to include Yuuri. But no, here Yuuri was with his over-dramatic theatrics and poor-little-me attitude. Anxiety was almost impossible for someone as confident as Victor to understand, and in that moment he found himself not wanting to understand it. All he wanted was to skate and have Yuuri be happy. The frustration was too much, the inner fear that Yuuri’s repulsion of the ice was tantamount to repulsion of Victor himself gnawing away at him. He had never felt like this, like he maybe wasn't good enough, before and he didn’t understand it. All he understood was that he wanted it to stop. 

“Grow up, Yuuri,” he found himself growling out. _Maybe_ , he thought, _I can scare him into skating._ Shock and awe factor. “Get over yourself. I’ve seen little kids take to the ice, practically babies. But you won’t do it. And I think I’ve figured out why. You just like being difficult. You like being the centre of attention. Not this time. I’m not going to put up with it. Either pull yourself together and skate, or pack up your things and go.” 

Well, he had certainly gotten Yuuri’s attention. The Japanese man had stopped still, his feet just over shoulder-width apart. He looked open, like a book thrown overboard floating out at sea, the ink on his pages running and blurring. Yuuri stepped out of himself. Everything felt icy cold apart from the tips of his fingers and the apples of his cheeks, which had never burnt so vehemently. 

 _Pack up your things and go._ The words rang in his ears like tinnitus. 

“I thought you were different.” Yuuri pulled his hands tight to his chest, over his heart, as though trying to protect it. He found himself sounding angry, furious, bitter, and he wasn’t quite sure how, just that it felt good. It felt like some kind of defence, a shield. _Stay away_. “I should have known. I know what figure skaters are like.” 

“Oh, you do, do you?” Victor hissed, hands on his hips. “And what’s that, then? What _are_ we like? _Do_ tell me, _darling_ Yuuri, I’m _dying_ to know.” There was a sneer on his face that could have cut steel. He was hurting and he wanted Yuuri to hurt too even if he never wanted him to hurt at all. Not really. “Go on.” 

The silence that followed told Yuuri all he needed to know; Victor was throwing the gauntlet down. He knew he should leave it there, sprawling on the ice between them. He knew he should just say sorry, but the word got stuck in his throat. He didn’t _want_ to say sorry. Why was it okay for Vcitor to snap at him, to be downright _nasty_ , and then expect Yuuri to just passively take it? Yuuri had given up everything to be with Victor. His family, his job, his friends, his home. _Why_ couldn’t he be angry? He couldn’t find an answer. 

If it had been any other day, in any other place, Yuuri would have left it. He was already wound up spring-tight, however, and Victor had just given him the push he needed. 

“Arrogant.” He spat out. “Selfish. Self-absorbed. Mean. _Bullies_. That’s all you are, Victor Nikiforov. A spiteful, self-centred _bully_. I thought you were _different_.” Yuuri could hear the high-pitched crack as his voice broke and shed its skin of anger down to the flesh of bubbling, searing anxiety. A sob rang out. It was enough to make Victor – his face now a mask of hurt horror, of guilt running deep enough to scar – flinch back. Yuuri felt like a pressure cooker that had been holding steam in for far too long. “But you’re not. You’re _not_. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You’re just like _them._ All you do is _take_ , Victor. I left home for you. I left everything behind because I thought, maybe, you _were_ my everything.” 

Victor felt as if all the light had been sucked out of him. He was in a vacuum. Yuuri hated him. _Yuuri hated him_. In that moment, perhaps, he could maybe understand how Yuuri’s anxiety could feel. Crippling. All-encompassing. Suffocating. All of his blood cells were stars exploding, dying, the solar system that ran through his body collapsing into darkness. 

“ _Luchik._ ” His voice sounded like a wound, gaping and open. He reached out a hand to touch Yuuri’s shoulder, but his fiancé shrugged him off. He’d suspected it before, but Victor knew for certain then; he couldn’t lose Yuuri. Not ever, and especially not over something like this. Not over the ice. What did skating matter if he didn’t have his Yuuri? “ _Please._ I didn’t mean it.” 

“You said it though. You did. I know what you think of me. You said it.” Victor noticed the wheeze to Yuuri’s voice, the frantic sheen to his brown eyes. _He’s having an anxiety attack._ Victor shifted closer, but Yuuri shifted back twice as fast, foxlike. “Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me. _Please._ Not right now. Stay away from me, Victor.” 

But Victor followed his instincts rather than his partner’s wishes and glided closer once more, reaching out both of his hands as though approaching a dangerous animal. His chest stung at the way Yuuri was looking at him, frightened and lost and small, and all Victor wanted was to make it go away. He never wanted his Yuuri to look like that. 

As soon as his fingers fastened around Yuuri’s wrist, something remarkable happened. Yuuri, who would usually feel guilty for treading on an ant, pulled his arms back and then slammed his palms into the solid wall of Victor’s chest, hard. Hard enough to make Victor stumble and then, incapacitated by shock, fall onto the ice with a blocky _thud_. There Victor sat, flat on his behind, his legs stretched out in front of him, in a stunned silence. 

Yuuri gawped down at his hands and then at Victor, then at his hands again. Had he really done that? His breathing became weighted with water. He had hurt _Victor_. 

“Yuuri, it’s okay!” Victor cooed as he shifted onto his knees. He could read the look in Yuuri’s eyes and, instead of feeling as wronged as he thought he maybe should have, he found himself feeling even guiltier. But apologies weren’t needed now. He needed to make Yuuri understand that it was alright, that they could leave the rink straight away and go straight back home for cuddles. All he wanted in the world right then was to make Yuuri some _katsudon_. He wanted to comb his fiancé’s hair whilst he ate it. He wanted to sing to him in Russian, all of the songs his mother had sung when he couldn’t get to sleep at night. “It’s alright. _I’m_ alright.” 

Yuuri wouldn’t stop shaking his head, his hands trembling like leaves in a hurricane. Before Victor could say anything more, he had jetted across the rink and hopped off, bounding in the direction of the locker room. As he watched Yuuri go, Victor found himself thinking that Yuuri wasn’t skating like a beginner – he wasn’t moving in juddering swoops or in a clumping march, as most first-timers did – but that he was _gliding_. The grace of it caused hurt to ring out somewhere in Victor’s chest, where Yuuri’s face had been nestled just minutes before. He’d never felt so cold, so empty. So _alone._  

He let himself drop back down to sitting on the ice, not caring that the cold was chewing through his tracksuit bottoms. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. He would have melted down all of his gold medals to make Yuuri a new ring, right there and then, a stronger one, if it would have made Yuuri come back. He would have snapped the blades off of his skates and thrown them into the Moyka River. But he didn’t run after Yuuri. Of all of the things he was bargaining that he would do to get Yuuri to love him again, he didn’t do the one thing that maybe would have made a difference. Why? Because he was terrified right down to his bones that he would make it worse. 

A sharp, hard sound rang out. He tossed his head in the direction of the sound – it was applause, someone was clapping – and squinted to the back of the rink. There, sprawled in one of the spectator’s seats with his legs draped nonchalantly over the chair in front, was Yurio. There was a dignified sort of clatter, like the rattling of swords making an archway for royalty, as the teenager made his way down to the barrier of the rink with his ice skates already on. He zipped over to Victor and for a moment Victor thought Yurio might offer a hand to help him up. But no. Of course he didn’t. 

“Well done, moron.” Yurio drawled as Victor got to his feet. “That was _real_ smooth.” 

“Oh, and I suppose you’d know _all_ about love, right?” Victor arched an eyebrow. 

“Clearly I know more about it than you do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter:
> 
> 1\. I chose 'Luchik' as Victor's pet name for Yuuri after doing some research and reading about it in an article called 10 Pet Names to Call Your Russian Boyfriend. It means 'sunbeam' or 'little ray of light', which I thought was a) really cute, b) summed up pretty well how Victor feels about Yuuri and c) was also a name of one of the mascots for Sochi Winter Olympics, which of course featured figure skating.
> 
> 2\. If Yuuri's so freaked out about going to the rink, why doesn't he just walk away? The reason for this is that he's so terrified of losing Victor (which isn't helped by his heightened anxiety at being near the rink anyway) that he would literally put himself through hell just to please him. The fact that he even protested at all about going to the rink is sort of a big deal here, because he would usually just suck it up and go along with whatever Victor wants. He feels like he needs to ask Victor's permission to leave, and that just isn't right - there is an imbalance of power between them.
> 
> 3\. Victor's reaction to Yuuri's begging. Victor thinks he's doing a pretty good job at keeping Yuuri feeling happy and loved and precious, and without Yuuri telling him otherwise how is he supposed to know any different? Victor is struggling with the relationship (his first serious relationship) and he's been trying so damn hard, so when Yuuri comes out with this stuff on the way to the rink it's a shock, and it hurts. His reaction also comes down in part to his possessive streak - without realising it he sees Yuuri as something passive and thus doesn't really accept it when what Yuuri wants is radically different from what he wants, it doesn't make sense to Victor who has been existing in this bubble of being The Victor Nikiforov. This possessiveness is shown in the anecdote about the night out. Punching someone just for talking to Yuuri? Even if the man was making a move on his fiance, Victor should not have gotten violent, much less should he equate it to affection.
> 
> 4\. Victor doesn't realise that forcing Yuuri onto the ice is a mean/selfish thing to do, and his intentions are honestly good. Even after Yuuri's mini breakdown outside of the rink he doesn't see it as a big deal because he's got blinders on. He's not used to having to consider other people's thoughts and feelings. He doesn't think to hard about why Yuuri might not want to go on the ice, only that Yuuri not going on it is making Victor hurt. He thinks that skating will make Yuuri happy, purely by virtue of it being something that makes him happy.
> 
> 5\. I think it needs to be said that, in this story, they've been together for just under a year. They stumbled into each other and then, in a whirlwind, put themselves in a situation where they have very little space to breathe. There's still a lot they don't know about each other, a lot that they don't fully understand about their personal feelings towards one another. Hence Victor's 'I won't let go of you' and 'Yuuri is more important than the ice' revelations. They love each other so damn much, of course they do, but they don't know each other properly.
> 
> 6\. The things they say to each other at the rink are things that they both mean in some small way. Because they both suck at communication, these ideas have festered and under the pressure of a stressful situation have come pouring out. 
> 
> 7\. Victor losing his shit with Yuuri is meant to sort of echo episode 7, where Victor 'shatters' Yuuri's heart in attempt to snap him out of a panic. He doesn't know how to handle Yuuri's anxiety, and because Yuuri doesn't talk to him about it or tell him what he needs, there's not a whole lot that can be done.  
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! :)
> 
> Next chapter will feature Yurio spilling some serious truth tea.


	5. Listen To Me

 

 

Victor skated circles around Yurio, looking over the teenager with an air of superiority. He reached out and adjusted the angle of Yurio’s wrist, tilted the fifteen-year-old’s chin into a slightly steeper incline. He drifted backwards a few paces and nodded to himself. 

“Look at me like you’ve got a crown on your head. I’m nothing to you, a speck of dust. You’re being forced to suffer through me.” 

“You’re making this too easy for me, Vitya.” But Yurio did as he’d been told. He tweaked the left corner of his mouth into a smirk, jutted up an eyebrow, hardened his eyes. Victor was probably the one person on the planet who could give Yurio advice that the teenager would actually take on board. “Like this, _da_?” 

Victor circled Yurio, skating backwards just because he could, and nodded. He hadn’t wanted to nod. He’d wanted to criticise. He’d wanted to bite. Really, what he wanted, was a way to let out his frustration at himself for messing things up so royally with Yuuri. But no. Of course Yurio had to be _perfect_. That hurt him in a different way – he could remember a time when Yurio could barely land a double toe loop. He could remember Yurio going through a phase, at about eight years old, when he would only let _Victor_ patch him up if he fell over or otherwise injured himself. It was starting to look like Yurio didn’t need him anymore, and that scared Victor in a way that he didn’t quite understand, but it felt sort of like being pulled in all different directions yet going nowhere at all.

“I want you to keep that look going throughout the entire routine, Kitten.” He saw Yurio bristle at the old nickname. Like embarrassing baby photographs, it frequently got pulled out of the musty cupboard of foundational memories when it was felt that Yurio needed to be reminded that he wasn’t quite an adult yet. That he still needed Victor. “You don’t want them to hate you. You want them to _want_ to hate you.” 

“That doesn’t even make any sense.” Yurio rolled his eyes and thawed out of his opening pose. Just like that, he went from a serious athletic competitor to a slouching, grouchy teenager with a severe attitude problem. “Anyway. Aren’t we going to talk about you falling flat on your ass this morning?” 

“No.” Victor gave him his signature bright smile – one that looked like a solid wall of steel. A challenge. “We are not.” 

“Fine. _I’ll_ talk about it and you can listen. Maybe Yakov and Mila can join in too.” Yurio smirked and anyone other than Victor would have found it very hard not to want to punch him. “You should let me give you advice.” 

Victor snorted, the sound a light puff of air. Yurio’s eyes narrowed into arrowheads and his cheeks went rage red. _He’s so easy to wind up_ , Victor thought. For (sort of) sharing a name, the two Yuri’s couldn’t have been more different; Yuuri was gentle and soft, a balmy midsummer sky sighing with sunset. Yurio was sharp and fierce, a pitch black night struck down the centre with lightning. Yuuri, although sensitive, was hard to anger and it was a gradual thing, like trees losing their leaves in autumn. Yurio lost his temper at the drop of a hat, as quickly as a dandelion losing its feathery seeds in a breeze. He was quick to forgive, though. He would yell at you and gripe for a day, maybe two, but then, just like _that_ , things would go back to normal, usually without there even being need for an apology. Would things be like that with Yuuri too? Victor didn’t know. He’d never made his Yuuri angry before. It didn’t feel right.

“No thanks, Yurio.” Victor mumbled, his mind elsewhere. “I mean, no offense, but you’re a kid. What do you know about love?” 

“I know that what I saw this morning, between you and Katsudon, wasn’t it,” Yurio gritted out, his hands screwing up into tight fists at his sides. “He was _crying_ like a baby.” He paused to bark out a laugh, a nasty smirk carving its way onto his face. “Squealing like a _pig_.” Yurio paused to give Victor a chance to defend his fiancé. When Victor said nothing, just kept his eyes down on the ice, Yurio realised it was worse than he’d thought. “He was crying and you still hauled his sorry ass out onto the ice. I could tell from the back of the rink that he was uncomfortable.”

“Well done you.” Victor grumbled. He had been able to tell it to, he admitted to himself, but he’d just thought that a not-so-gentle nudge in the right direction was just what Yuuri needed. That he’d be all the better for it. 

“You need to _listen_ to someone, when you love them.” The teenager paused for dramatic effect, holding Victor’s gaze from under the curtain of his fringe. “Not that I think you love Katsudon.” 

Yurio might as well have told Victor that he was the lead suspect in a mass-murder case for the way Victor reacted. His eyes widened like two blue bullet holes and he made a sound like the hiss of a gun between the pulling of the trigger and the release of the bullet. Inside, Victor jumped with shock at this assessment of things and then landed in a sticky marsh of hurt. Snakes with sand in their eyes coiled in his stomach. 

 _Good_ , Yurio thought. _Maybe you’ll listen to me now._  

“I don’t think you’re capable of loving anything other than the ice, Vitya.” In one push, Yurio was close enough to Victor to imagine that he could hear his friend’s heartbeat. He imagined it as a great, vacuous boom. “I’m no different. We make a choice when we become skaters. We give ourselves over to the ice. We let it infect us and become us. There isn’t room for anything, anyone, else.” If Victor had looked up from the ice, he would have seen that Yurio’s eyes had swollen to an almost superhuman wideness, that his fists were trembling. “We are creatures of ice, you and me. We’re too cold. We burn anyone who gets too close.” 

There was a semi-soft slicing sound as a young woman, a blur of red, swooped past. Her left leg was bent so that she was seated on air, her right leg straight out in front of her. Perfectly balanced. Her eyes danced. Mila. 

She whispered to a stop behind Yurio and draped her arms over his shoulders. If he had been a cat, Victor thought, Yuri would have hissed and scratched her eyes out. From the looks of him, he was having an excruciatingly hard job resisting doing just that. 

“Aw, Yuri!” From behind, she dug her fingertips into Yurio’s cheeks and pulled them up into a smile. “Why so melodramatic?” 

He slipped out of her grip and turned to scowl at her. Victor’s face was tugged into a tight cringe; of all the things he didn’t need, the thing he needed least was Yurio telling Mila about his tumultuous love life. _It would just be a Yurio thing to do_ , he thought to himself, _it’s like making people miserable is the source of his power._  

Instead, however, Yurio stuck his tongue out at Mila and growled a few words that, on any other day, Victor would have scolded him for saying – but considering that Yurio was doing him a favour in keeping quiet, it seemed appropriate to let him get away with it. Pouting like a primadonna, Mila spiralled away to the other side of the rink to work on polishing a double-triple combination into seamlessness.

Victor reached out to squeeze Yurio’s arm in silent thanks. Before he could make contact, however, Yurio had spun around to face him again, all sharp, acute angles. 

“You know what your problem is, Vitya?” Victor didn’t respond, getting a feeling that he was going to find out whether he wanted to or not (the latter was very much the case). Yurio planted his hands on his hips. If he had been anyone other than Yuri Plisetsky he would have looked ridiculous. “You’re a magpie. When you see something beautiful you have to have it, and to hell with everyone else.” Yurio scowled down at his skates, digging a toe pick into the ice. “Don’t tell Katsudon I called him _beautiful_.” He all but vomited the last word. “Because he’s not. But he is to you. He’s just a pretty thing you wanted to bring back to your nest, but now you’re realising he’s more than just a pretty thing to look at and play with, you don’t know how to handle it.” 

As though propelled by the vehemence in Yurio’s voice, Victor drifted back a pace or two. He had thought that falling (no, being _pushed_ ) onto the ice that morning had hurt, but that was a veritable _pinprick_ compared to this gouging great knife wound. It hurt not because Yurio, a kid whom he made it his business to be a big brother figure to, apparently held such a low opinion of him, thought him so shallow, so incapable of proper, real _love_ , but because, try as he might, Victor couldn’t deny that there was at least a grain of truth to what the teenager was saying. No. Not just a grain. A whole fucking _beach_. 

He adored Yuuri, _his_ Yuuri. Every time he saw the Japanese man his heart burst into a storm of rose petals that disrupted his blood flow for at least the following forty minutes into something rushed and hot and paramount. His skin turned to stardust wherever Yuuri touched it, tingling, twinkling. Before he had met Yuuri he had thought himself a happy man, only to realise that he’d never even known what happiness _was_ until he’d curled up in bed with Yuuri, looked into those innocently indulgent brown eyes and felt the sound, tectonic thumping of a heart beating just for him. But was that love? Victor had thought so, but now this was all cast into doubt. Relationships were supposed to be smiles and flowers and fucking on the kitchen counter at lunchtime on days off and plaiting each other’s hair and playing connect-the-freckles whilst you watched television. Everything was supposed to be perfect. But this? This was as far from perfect as you could get. It was sickening. Looming. _Frightening._ Like running and running and never being able to catch your breath.

Victor looked down at his gloved hands. Under that fabric was a gold ring, and that ring meant love. Was Yuuri wearing his ring at that exact moment? Victor thought he would have known the answer to that question but he didn’t. 

 _No_ , Victor thought, _I love Yuuri. My Yuuri. I love him. But is it good enough? Why can’t I make him happy? How could I have made him cry?_ A spike of self-loathing spite split down the centre of Victor’s throat. He had never found something he couldn’t do before. He couldn’t make Yuuri happy. Yuuri deserved someone who could make him smile that heart-rupturing, god-affirming smile of his all the time. Not someone like Victor, who pushed and pushed and didn’t realise how close to the edge they were until they were falling. 

He forced himself to meet the hard emeralds of Yurio’s eyes. Victor could tell from the set of the teenager’s jaw that he was grinding his teeth together. 

“You’re right, Kitten.” 

It was the dry crack of Victor’s voice, the corpse-like greying of Victor’s blue eyes that convinced Yurio that he wasn’t. He knew what he had to do. 

 

* * *

 

Yurio had never been to a florist’s before. When, at age twelve, he’d given Victor a bouquet for Valentine’s Day, left ‘anonymously’ in Victor’s ice rink locker, it had been made of the wildflowers that grew at the end of his grandfather’s garden, most of them with the roots still attached (Victor had been very sweet about it). On the other handful of occasions that he’d had to buy flowers for someone, he had just picked up the cheapest bouquet at the nearest supermarket. He was not a boy who cared for things as dainty and delicate as flowers. The whole concept seemed odd to him; when someone is dead or sick or you love them, you buy them a fistful of dead plants that, days later at best, will wilt away into grey nothing. 

Currently, he was not in the business of buying flowers. No. It was his lunchbreak and as soon as Yakov had told him to get off the ice, he’d shot out of the rink without answering Victor’s dazed-hurt calls of ‘wait, I thought we were getting lunch together’. First of all he’d called Phichit, an always-smiling ray of sunshine that was neither on Yurio’s good side nor his bad one, to ask if he knew where Yuuri would be. And he did. Of course he did. He was Yuuri’s best friend. Yurio had no time for such things (apart from, maybe, in the form of a Kazakh skater called Otabek Altin). 

It was on the riverside, far enough away from the epicentre of the city to never be considered busy. If Yurio had been a businessman, he would have not picked this spot to set up shop. It was too out of the way. Too quiet. There was none of the gilded lustre that made St Petersburg _St Petersburg_ ; the historical charm of the city, in this neck of the woods, had faded to ramshackle desolation. 

Yuri couldn’t even tell what the name of the florist’s was as someone had apparently taken a fancy to the big plastic letters nailed to the shop’s front, and only two of them remained. In the window was a sprawling display of flowers in shades of red and orange and yellow that Yurio hadn’t even known existed. Somewhere it registered with the teenager that it was beautiful. He snapped a picture with his phone and posted it to Instagram. The fangirls would like it. 

He strutted into the empty shop as though he were doing the owner a favour simply by being there. A doughy sort of woman with blooming statice eyes was stood behind the counter, using the edge of a pair of scissors to strike curls into thin strands of pink ribbon. It was cluttered in the shop, buckets of flowers forming a suburb of apartment blocks. It smelt sweetly damp. Alive. 

Yuri knew the woman had noticed him, but she didn’t look up until she’d finished curling the last of her sheaf of ribbons. 

“Can I help you?” She had a voice that was a bizarre halfway point between birdsong and a smoker’s cough. “Flowers for your sweetheart?” 

“No! No.” Yurio, if he had been a blushing sort of person, would maybe have blushed then. “I’m looking for Yuuri Katsuki.” 

“Oh.” She picked up a new bunch of ribbons, this time in baby blue, and got to curling them. The slither-scrape of the blade grated on Yurio and he set his jaw. “You’re not Victor, are you? He told me not to tell Victor he was here if someone by that name came looking for him. But I get the feeling,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “that that’s _exactly_ what he wants.” 

“No. I’m not Victor. I’m Yuri. The original and the best.” He threw his head forward slightly, just enough to dislodge his hoodie, the sharp jut of his chin slicing upwards. “He’s here then?” 

“Backroom. He had the day off but this morning he came blundering in here. In a right state he was, too.” She shook her head. “So I just let him get on with it. Sweet boy. A bit soft.” 

“You’re telling me,” Yuri grumbled as he strode towards the only internal door in the shop, which he assumed must lead to aforementioned backroom. He thought about muttering a ‘thank you’ to the lady behind the counter, but then thought better of it; he had damaged his reputation enough for one day just by going to a _flower shop_. He didn’t want anyone thinking _he’d_ gone soft. 

If the shop itself had been cluttered, the backroom was a certified _hurricane_ of disorder. Thick green stems were thrown here and there, leaves littered in pools all over the floor. Buckets of flowers were stacked in an amphitheatre around a large, solid wooden table at which the object of Yurio’s quest was stood, leaning over a glass vase bursting and brimming with colour. 

Yuuri’s head sprung up at the noise of the door banging shut behind Yurio. Somewhat amused, Yurio watched as a glint of light faded from his namesake’s eyes, like a firework fading from the sky. 

“Damn right, I’m not Vitya.” 

“I-I. I never said-” 

“You didn’t have to.” Yurio rolled his eyes hard enough to risk some kind of strain and then hauled himself sleekly up onto the wooden table. His feet couldn’t quite reach the ground. “You’re an ugly crier, you know. _Hideous_.” 

Yuuri, at the speed of light, touched his fingertips to the over-filled black bags etched into the skin under his eyes. This was all the confirmation Yurio needed for what the red blotches on the older man’s face had led him to suspect; Yuuri, pathetic moron that he was, had locked himself away in an ivory tower full of flowers with the express purpose of crying his day away. And Yurio thought Victor was bad. He’d suffered through a morning of practice watching the older man fall at every hurdle, to the point where Yakov had told him to sit out lest he risk serious damage. 

“I saw you earlier, when you knocked Victor on his ass. Can’t say he didn’t have it coming, but I never thought _you_ would be the one to give it to him.” The teenager plucked up a flower, admired it for a moment and then started to peel off its petals, one by one. He’d got half way around its sunbeam face when he added, “that was a compliment, by the way.” 

“Oh. Um.” Yuuri twisted is gold ring around his finger. It was an archaeological dig to find the right reply. “Thank you?” 

“You’re welcome.” He tossed the flower aside. “So you have a backbone. Who knew?  Not me. And not Victor, by the looks of him. It was hilarious. It nearly _killed_ me, not laughing.” 

Yuuri’s fingers tightened around the stem of a rose and, just like that, it snapped. He made a sharp shot of sound in the back of his throat and the banks of his brown eyes swelled as they gazed down at the distorted neck of the once majestic flower. Yurio smirked to himself. 

Still perched on the edge of the table, Yurio stretched his legs outright in front of himself so that his body formed a sort of right angle. He looked down at his immaculate nails, not wanting Yuuri to know that he was paying any sort of attention. 

“I’m glad you found it amusing,” the older man gritted out, and Yurio wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard that tone from the usually shy, polite man. But then Yuuri sought out the teenager’s gaze, and the younger was struck by a foreign feeling of guilt at finding Yuuri’s cheeks wet. Everything about Yuuri had turned to water. _But Jesus Christ,_ Yurio thought to himself, _what an ugly fucking crier._ And that – or so Yurio told himself – was why he looked away. “H-he. He’s my _everything_.” Yuuri didn’t want to say it out loud, especially not to _Yuri Fucking Plisetsky_ of all people, but now he’d started he couldn’t stop. “I don’t know what I’d do if Victor didn’t want me anymore. He’s the reason I wake up in the morning. I. I’ve never felt like this, like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Like I’m _home._ I. I _love_ him. I just. I want him to meet me halfway, sometimes. I just want him to love me back.”

Quite honestly, Yurio could have fallen off of the table. 

“There’s no way you can be _that_ stupid. Of course he loves you, you _moron!_ ” It came out in a vicious bark. Yuuri flinched back like leaves scattered by the wind and Yurio felt good for feeling bad about it. “So. So you better shape up, y’hear me? Victor deserves better than whatever the fuck you are. He deserves someone who at least _knows_ how much he loves them.” Yurio gave into the urge to pull on his own hair, but resisted tugging it out in great clumps. “That little spiel you just gave me? Give it to Vitya. Lord knows he needs to hear it.” 

Yuuri seemed to tuck up into himself slightly. He took off his glasses under the pretext of cleaning them with the too-long sleeve of his – Victor’s – jumper. Without his glasses on, everything blurred into softness. Even Yurio. 

His head hurt. He wanted to just bury himself in flowers, in what he knew, in what was constant, until the world stopped spinning. But the world would never stop spinning. Not because of some sciencey answer like gravity, but because of anxiety. Yuuri suffered from anxiety. He took pills for it. And it would _always_ be there. He would never be normal. He would never be good enough. Not for Victor. Not for himself. A buzz of thought would follow him like a storm cloud no matter where he went and sometimes lightning would strike, rendering him breathless. The shadow was always there and Yuuri was so acutely aware of it that he half-thought other people could see it too. It didn’t go away. Not even when Victor’s arms were around him. Because life is not a story with a happy ending, where everything can be fixed by being kissed by the right person. Being with Victor, though, did make it feel just a smudge more manageable. It made the good aspects of life feel gooder. Victor made bronze into gold. Platinum. 

“Katsudon?” 

Yuuri slipped his glasses back on. If he hadn’t known better, he would have suspected Yurio of concern. 

“Why are you here, Yurio?” He sounded as tired as he felt. To Yurio, he sounded _old_. “I know you don’t like me.” 

In that moment, Yurio felt like he could have protested that point. But he didn’t. He couldn’t go soft on the same day that Yuuri Katsuki grew a backbone. The world might never recover its balance. 

“No, I don’t. But I have become quite attached to Vitya, and it would be a shame if he threw himself off a bridge just because you suck at expressing your warm and fuzzy feelings.”

Yuuri couldn’t help it; he smiled. _Maybe the Russian Punk isn’t so tough after all_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: HAPPY NEW YEAR! 
> 
>  
> 
> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. I think that Yurio is kind of like a cat. He has people he that he loves, but he doesn't like to show it; he likes to act completely independent and sees emotion as a sort of softness. Sort of like the way cats will pretend that it's a total accident every time they show affection or happen to be near you. 
> 
> 2\. Victor, in this world, has been training alongside Yurio for a long, long time. He sees himself as sort of a big brother figure (not quite a parental figure - but perhaps like the cool uncle) to Yurio and the fact that Yurio is growing up, maybe not needing him so much anymore is hitting him hard. Victor is struggling with his relationship with Yuuri and now he thinks that Yurio is slipping away too.
> 
> 3\. Does Yurio mean what he says to Victor? The magpie stuff: yes. The ice stuff: let's call it self-projection. Regardless, he's trying to provoke Victor into getting his shit together. No matter what Yurio thinks of the Victuuri relationship, he knows that Yuuri makes Victor happy and so, deep down, he wants them to stay together.
> 
> 4\. Victor has an extremely idealised (and fake) idea of what a relationship should be like. He doesn't think that it should be difficult and now that it is, he thinks that means it's not going right. He wants all of the perks of a relationship without having to put the work in, because he doesn't realise that there should be work to put into a relationship; love should be enough. He's worried that things are failing, and that frightens him.
> 
> 5\. A note about language. When two or more people of the same nationality are talking to each other, assume that they are talking in their native language (i.e. in a conversation between Yurio and Victor, assume they are speaking Russian even though it's written in English), but if there are two or more people of differing nationalities assume that they are talking English unless otherwise stated (i.e. a conversation between Yuuri and Phichit is in English).
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! :)
> 
> Next chapter: Yuuri takes Yurio's advice (sort of) and Victor follows the old adage of "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach". AKA, it is fluff before Shit Storm Number Two.


	6. Right Where I Belong

 

 

The walk home was, for Yuuri, one that felt eternal, in the same way hospital corridors do, or the gap of void silence before being given bad news. The early darkness was crisp. It was cold and he didn’t have a jacket. He let himself shrink inside Victor’s stolen sweater and, if he shut his eyes, he could make himself imagine he was being hugged by the man himself. It had been a long, aching day and that was all he wanted; to be held close and tight and be told that he belonged somewhere, to someone.

_Either pull yourself together and skate, or pack up your things and go_. _Pull yourself together. Pack up your things. Go._  

How had that happened? How had Yuuri _let_ that happen? He hadn’t meant for it to. He hadn’t meant to snap at Victor, to say all of those awful, untrue things about him. Untrue. Were they untrue? Of course they were. But, maybe, they weren’t. He had meant them in the moment, and he utterly hated himself for it. Their argument had been replaying in his head all day in high definition, in glaring neon, and it wasn’t what Victor had said that had gotten to him the most (although it had sent him running to the flower shop’s small bathroom to wretch and gag with pure, unadulterated anxiety, so real and solid that it weighed him down) but what _he_ himself had said to Victor. How could he have said those things? Victor was _perfect_. He hadn’t deserved that. Not at all. 

Walking along the last bridge before their apartment block – he could see it in the distance, but couldn’t make his eyes focus enough to see if the window of their apartment, their _home_ , was aglow – Yuuri stopped. He pulled the baggy sleeves of Victor’s jumper down over his hands to form mittens, and hid his face in them. He committed the smell to memory, the softness, the whole totality of it. Would Victor let him take it when, as Yuuri had convinced himself was about to happen, Victor dumped him? He hoped so. It would be just enough to keep him alive. Solid proof that, at one time, to someone, he had mattered. At one time, he had belonged. 

Tears welling in his eyes like so many salty pinpricks, Yuuri forced himself the rest of the way home. _Is it still home?_ He decided that yes, it was. For these last few moments at least. Maybe, even if he didn’t live there anymore, it would still be home in a painful sort of way. 

He had a plan. As soon as he stepped through the door he would garble to Victor just what he had blurted out to Yurio that afternoon. That was his best chance of survival. He figured that nobody really knew Victor better than Yurio did, and so his advice was probably sound. But then again, it was no secret that Yurio didn’t like him. In fact, Yuuri thought, that was putting it mildly. What if his visit had all been a trick intended to get rid of Yuuri for good? Yurio _hated_ him, he was sure of it. And now Victor did too. He could remember the first time that he’d met Yurio. He’d tried so _hard_. He’d let Victor pick out his clothes and preen him to perfection. But still, when Yurio had laid eyes on him, he’d sneered and spat something about Yuuri being a pig. Yuuri had been sure that if Victor’s arm hadn’t been wrapped tight around him, he would have shrunk down to nothing and disappeared off the face of the planet. He always tried so hard with people, but it never seemed to work. Even Phichit, Yuuri had managed to convince himself, was getting tired of him. Maybe it would be better if he left Russia. At least in Japan he had a family who were obligated to like him. 

In the foyer of the apartment building, someone else was already waiting for the elevator. So Yuuri took the stairs. 

 

* * *

 

Victor was in the kitchen, draped in an apron that read ‘ _Kiss the Cook’_ (they’d bought it in America after those first four days together, a promise, Victor had said, the first in a long line of many domesticities to be purchased for the home they would have together). In one hand was a wooden spoon with huge great splinters missing from it, and in the other was an email from Yuuri’s mother that Victor had long ago printed out. It contained a recipe. The paper was crinkled and mottled with brown spots (some faded into bruising, others still sticky). Victor used it like the Bible and, much like a devout Christian, turned to it in times of crisis.

_Katsudon_ , Victor thought to himself with a determined smile, _fixes everything._

He had to prove Yurio wrong. He did love Yuuri. He _did._ He just had to prove it. Yuuri was _his_ and he wanted him to always be his. He just had to look after him better. If he could look after and keep Makkachin, whom he loved like a child, he could do the same for Yuuri. 

Okay, so maybe right at that moment he couldn’t actually read the recipe for the smoke billowing into the kitchen, but it felt like he was going in the right direction. It was better than doing nothing at all. He turned the heat down and nodded to himself. It didn’t look _exactly_ like it had when he’d gone to Japan with Yuuri, but he always made it this way and Yuuri always liked it. It always made Yuuri smile, and that was all Victor wanted. All he ever wanted. 

Makkachin weaved anxiously between his legs as she always did when Yuuri was late coming home. He reached down and scratched behind her ears, his fingers getting lost in the rich thickness of her fur. Before Yuuri, Makkachin had been his only family. 

Both master and dog bounded through to the living room at the noise of a key in the lock (not quite a sound, more like a suggestion). There Yuuri was stood, looking breathless and red-cheeked, his hair ruffled into gentle clouds. His glasses were glazed over with condensation. Victor plucked them from the tip of Yuuri’s nose and cleaned them on his apron. Yuuri seemed to flinch at the sudden snatch, and something in Victor’s insides evaporated. _Everything isn’t okay._  

“Victor. Vitya.” His voice came in wet puffs. Makkachin pressed her head to Yuuri’s knee and, mentally, Victor thanked her for it. “I love you. I love you so, so much. _Ves’ moy shirokiy mir._ ” Russian. _You are my whole wide world_. Victor dropped his fiancé’s glasses. They fell down to the carpet, soft as snow. “I need you. Vitya, i.” Before Victor could even clock anything, Yuuri was pawing at his face, gentle, nervous fingers mapping out a particularly tender spot on his cheek – distracted, Victor had overshot a landing and had slammed face-first into the barrier at the rink that afternoon. “You’re hurt.”  

Victor swooped down to pick up Yuuri’s glasses and slid them over the younger man’s nose, like slotting in the last piece of a puzzle. And then, he smiled. The warmth of Yuuri’s concern, his I-love-yous, his thrill of desperate need, bubbled softly in Victor’s stomach, the steam of it wafting up to his face. Yuuri reached out again to inspect the bruise, but Victor caught hold of his hand and snowflaked kisses to each fingertip. Yuuri felt heat cut into his cheeks. Did this mean everything was okay? Had Victor forgiven him? 

There was a static moment, and then Victor was hauling him into a hug. Yuuri could feel his ribs creak in the best of ways as Victor’s arms constricted around him. He let his face nestle into the crook of his fiancé’s neck; could the crook of someone’s neck feel like home? To Yuuri, right then, it did. He could feel the steady, solid constant of Victor’s pulse and that was enough. More than enough. 

“I’m sorry, Vitya, I’m so sorry, I-” 

He found himself being silenced by a kiss and he was happy to dissolve into it as worry exhaled out of him in rushes. He could feel Victor’s hands on his hips, his fingers sliding under the hem of his sweater to push into Yuuri’s skin. Yuuri hoped he would have bruises. When Victor touched him, it was like his skin turned to gold. Yuuri twined his arms around Victor’s neck so that he could better balance on his tiptoes to press into the kiss. After a moment they pulled apart just enough for Victor to rub his nose lightly against Yuuri’s. _Everything’s fine. I’ve got you._  

There was a breath, a heartbeat, and then Victor dived down into another kiss. If the first had been an apology, then this was a reunion. Open mouthed. Teeth. Tongue. Yuuri’s arms tightened around Victor’s neck. He just wanted to hold on. That was all Yuuri had ever really needed – something to hold onto, an anchor. Yuuri, for all of his nervousness and anxiety, was not a passive kisser. Not in moments like these, when Victor made him feel needed, wanted, _desired._ He reached up and carved the shape of Victor’s jaw with a fingertip, hanging off of the older man with one arm. Yuuri made himself pull away first and Victor’s lips latched onto his, unwilling to let go, clinging. There was a gentle _putttt_ sound as their lips peeled apart. There was a haze over Victor’s face that made Yuuri feel some shade of powerful. He imagined it was how Victor felt when he was on the ice.

The light of the room almost seemed to glint off of Victor’s eyes and, not for the first time, Yuuri suspected him of perfection. Someone could have told Yuuri that his fiancé was the son of God, and he probably would have believed them. Victor could be cut of diamond. 

“We’re good, _da_?” Victor’s voice was a low purr. Yuuri nodded. Victor could have asked him to jump off of a cliff and, right in that moment, Yuuri would have agreed to it. “Good. _Luchik._ ” He tucked a strand of hair back behind Yuuri’s ear. “ _Watashi wa anata o aishiteimasu._ ” Japanese. _I love you._ Or, at least, Victor hoped that’s what it meant. 

To Yuuri’s ears the phrase was clunky, and pronounced with all the wrong stresses. In fact, to someone unused to Victor’s butchered attempts at Japanese it would probably have been unidentifiable. But Victor had murmured it with such confidence that Yuuri found himself considering it a perfect translation. He lent forwards, pressing his nose to Victor’s chest. _Yes. I belong here. Right here. Home._

“ _Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.”_ Russian. _I love you too._ He breathed the words out. Victor squeezed him a little tighter. Yuuri’s nose twitched – it felt like something sharp was forcing its way up his nostrils. “Vitya?” 

“Hm?” 

“Can I smell burning?”

“ _Der’mo_.” Russian. _Shit._

 

* * *

 

After a dinner of thoroughly charred _katsudon_ (which Yuuri fed in stages to Makkachin under the table, feeling somewhat guiltier for inflicting it upon the poor creature than he did for not eating something that Victor had clearly worked so very hard on) and one bath between the two of them, Yuuri let Victor pull him into his lap in bed, atop the covers. From the bedside table, Victor grabbed a comb and started to trace it gently through his fiancé’s thick, damp hair. Makkachin was stretched out lazily at the foot of the bed. Victor wanted to capture the moment in a music box so that he could open it whenever he wanted and think, _love_. 

The silence between them was like a pillow; soft and comfortable. The room was warm, in the same way that someone’s breath can be warm when they whisper a secret against your ear. In intimate, personal ways. Bundled in his pyjamas, Yuuri felt toasty. Against his back he could feel the chiselled indents of Victor’s bare chest ( _how is he always so warm?)_ , the way it went up and down, _there. Solid._ It was the one constant that Yuuri needed. He could feel his eyelids getting droopy, like someone had tied tiny weights to each individual eyelash. He didn’t want to sleep. He desperately didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to stay awake and savour the simple pleasure of having someone he loved combing his hair. He needed to memorise it – the way the prongs stroked against his scalp just hard enough to enforce that this was all real, the silk scarf of Victor’s breath against his neck – for when it stopped happening. Because it would. One day. He was sure of it. Princes don’t wind up with frogs. Nor with pigs. 

But then his head dropped forward, a rose too heavy for its stem, and he was asleep. His body slumped backwards and Victor couldn’t help but chuckle. Yuuri was _his_. His precious thing. His treasure. His _home_. 

A few streets away, Yurio was sat up in his bed, flicking restlessly through Instagram on his phone. His eyes landed on a new post from Victor’s account and got stuck. In a pastel kind of light there was Yuuri, dressed in quite frankly ridiculously adorable pyjamas (Yurio squinted, and realised that what he had taken as a pattern of clouds were actually tiny poodles), his eyes shut and his lips in a murmur of a smile. His head was resting against a broad chest, and was crowned with a kiss from Victor’s lips. Yuuri’s arms were curled limply in his lap, boneless, asleep. Content. Victor’s face was hidden by his silver hair, but his expression wasn’t that hard to guess at. Not for someone who knew Victor like Yurio did. In the corner of the screen, Makkachin’s snout poked into the shot. The caption read: _my world <3_ 

Yurio tapped in a comment: _jfc you two disgust me._

He turned off his phone, laid down, and slipped into sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter:
> 
> 1\. So the main purpose of this chapter was to show that their relationship isn't all bad, because it isn't, and I'm acutely aware that it's been very doom-and-gloom thus far. They absolutely adore one another, they have chemistry, and they definitely have something worth fighting for - they just don't know how to arm themselves. 
> 
> 2\. Yuuri, bless him, did try to actually talk to Victor but then they just wound up kissing instead. Which is nice, sure, but it doesn't exactly solve the problem. They're only interested (the both of them) in having things go back to 'normal', not in actually confronting the issues they have because they're scared that to do so would create more problems. They're both so relieved that the other is no longer angry/upset with them that they've both adopted a kind of if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-it attitude. They just want to love and be loved, but relationships are more than that.
> 
>  
> 
> Because I have waaaay too much time on my hands, I've come up with like a mini playlist for each character in this fic. I thought I might include one in the notes here and there when I don't have a lot to say? So here's the first one, for Victor:  
> \- Everybody Loves Me by One Republic  
> \- You Don't Love Me Like You Should by Hey Violet  
> \- I Caught Fire by The Used  
> \- Walls by All Time Low  
> \- New Perspective by Panic! At The Disco
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! :)
> 
> Next chapter: Victor is shit, Yakov loses his shit, and Yuuri is in deep shit.


	7. We All Fall Down

 

 

Yuuri flew through the air. Because that’s what it was; _flying_. The solid click-scrape of his landing echoed and resonated throughout the cavernous, metallic building, spreading like ripples. A quadruple Salchow. And he’d landed it like it was _nothing._ Now, if only he could land it in competition. But he would. Of course he would. And if he didn’t, he would at least manage to scrape together all of the rotations. 

Seamlessly, his landing curved into a spread eagle, arms out at his sides in a solid sort of cockiness. _Look at me. Look at what I can do._ His coach had told him to think those things when he skated even if he didn’t believe them. _Confidence is key. Fake it until you make it._ He felt a smirk spread across his face as his feet weaved and nipped at the ice, his arms darting like the brush of a painter. It wasn’t perfect, Yuuri didn’t think his skating could ever be faultless, but if he shut his eyes he could imagine himself as The Victor Nikiforov. If he did it how Victor would have, then it would at least be beautiful. 

Yuuri, at age seventeen, was a shy boy. His friends were a small, almost entirely female, select group. When he spoke to someone he found the words would often turn to smoke in his throat, choking him, and the words that he _did_ manage to get out would buzz around in his head for the following few days, turning rotten, telling him he’d said the wrong thing, that he was annoying and stupid and why should he even bother? It wouldn’t have been a far cry to say that seventeen-year-old Katsuki Yuuri hated himself. Because, when he really thought about it, he did. 

But not on the ice. On the ice Yuuri knew who he was and that, just maybe, he could achieve great things. If he followed routines and schedules – which he did, religiously; he liked constants – then nothing could go wrong. The ice wasn’t just a physical thing, but it was a place, a whole new plane of being. The second Yuuri stepped out onto the ice he was no longer Katsuki Yuuri, Anxious Teenage Mess Who Can’t Talk To Strangers. No, he was Katsuki Yuuri, Ice Skater Who Can Nail Quads (In Practice). Maybe, one day, he could be The Katsuki Yuuri. Maybe, one day, Victor Nikiforov would notice him. 

This was going to be his year. He became even surer of it as he sliced to an artistically stark halt out of an immaculate sit spin. Three days until nationals, and he was the hot favourite. This year he would break through the national barrier and become an international competitor. He could do it. Not even his anxiety could tell him otherwise. He knew he could do it. More than that; he _believed_ that he could. He would make it to the Grand Prix. Maybe, if he worked hard, he could share a podium with The Victor Nikiforov. But that was getting ahead of himself. He was being cocky. _It’s not arrogance if it’s true._

He held his pose – ankles crossed, arms reaching heavenwards as though expecting the stars to fall into his palms, head straight up so that his eyes were locking with those of an imaginary judge. Knowing he was quite alone, that the other skaters had left hours ago, Yuuri gave a low bow and did a victory lap, pretending to pick up flowers and soft toys as he went. He paused to sign an imaginary autograph. 

There was a click. Later, he wouldn’t be sure if he’d actually heard it or if he just remembered hearing it because he knew it had to have been there. The light evaporated from the rink. It wasn’t just dark. It was _void._ Yuuri held his hand out in front of his face and he couldn’t see it. 

“Hello?” He called out, and the black swallowed the noise. “Um. I’m still practising in here, I need the lights on, please!” 

There were creaking noises, and then clumping noises. Heavy noises. Footsteps on the ice. Yuuri backed away from the noises only to feel the barrier bite into his back. He was trapped, and what made it worse was that he _knew_ it. His heartbeat was deafening as it echoed in the shells of his own ears. His lungs were full of fire. He wanted everything to stop spinning, echoing, blurring, burning.

Yuuri heard it before he felt it. The sickening _snap_ of his knee. He was vaguely aware, in an abstract way, of the ice rushing up to meet him, shocked numb. He cried out in surprise, not in pain. Not yet. There would be plenty of time for that later. 

Dumbly, he squinted up through the darkness with his left eye – the right side of his face was pressed against the ice, so cold it burnt. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he could just about make out the shadowy suggestion of three figures. Tall. Huge. Towering. He’d never stood a chance. And they were all holding something. What was it? What were they holding? 

 _Hammers._  

 

* * *

 

Victor had never put much thought into what the worst way to wake up would be (he was fairly sure he knew what the best way was) but this, he was certain, must be up there. 

Yuuri just wouldn’t stop _screaming_. Victor had never heard anything like it. It was the sound of universes tearing themselves apart. Shredding. Raw. Visceral. It was a blood-sound. 

Victor sat himself up, brushing the sleep from his eyes and pushing the blanket from around his waist so that he could move better, get closer to Yuuri, _his Yuuri_. He slammed the bedside light on, wincing at the sudden intrusive brightness. Makkachin was pacing the length of the bed, whimpering deep in the back of her throat. The urge to vomit crept up on Victor, but he swallowed it back; he had to focus on Yuuri, he couldn’t fall apart when Yuuri needed Victor to hold him together. But what was Victor supposed to do? There was nobody for him to punch, no scrape for him to kiss better. The helplessness, the _inadequacy_ was dizzying. 

The screaming mutated into what Victor was sure was Japanese, but he didn’t know what it meant. All he knew was that it sounded like begging, like the soundtrack to a horror movie, like his heart breaking. 

“Yuuri. _Luchik._ Hey.” His voice was a hurried murmur as he reached out a hand to Yuuri’s chest. His hand trailed from the opening of Yuuri’s pyjama shirt (was that Yuuri’s heartbeat he could feel? How could something inside a person be so loud, so fast, so apocalyptic?), up his neck, to cup the Japanese man’s chin. Victor gave a gentle squeeze, just enough for the soft skin under his fingertips to be left slightly paler when he pulled away. There was a judder of noise from Yuuri as his eyes pinged open. They were wet. Flooded. Burst banks. Victor lent over him. “ _Hey_. Hey, Yuuri,” Victor cooed, running his hands through Yuuri’s hair in light crop circles, “hey. I’m here. You’re okay. You’re at home. I’m here. Vitya’s here.” 

Yuuri was drawn to the sturdy warmth of Victor’s voice like a moth to a flame. He blinked around himself as feeling rushed back to him with the force of a monster truck. He bent his knee and then flattened it again, and then once more. The room was warm, like a hug, and he was shaking, not shivering. He wasn’t seventeen; he was a man now, not a boy. And Victor. Victor was there. Victor wouldn’t let anything happen to him. _I’m his,_ Yuuri thought, and found comfort in it. 

The skin of his face prickled and Yuuri moved to sit up properly. Before he could wipe the tears from his patchy-hot cheeks, however, he found that Victor was already there, cupping them and erasing the wetness with the softness of his thumbs. Even once his face was dry, Yuuri didn’t shift out of the hold, and nor did Victor release him.  When, a small eternity later, Victor did, it was in favour of taking both of Yuuri’s hands instead. It wasn’t until they were encapsulated in the strong steadiness of Victor’s that Yuuri even realised that his fingers were shaking. His world had narrowed down to his fiancé, and that was fine. 

“It’s okay. I’m here.” Yuuri found himself nodding along to the sweet salve of Victor’s voice. Victor gave his hands a soft squeeze. “How about some hot chocolate, _da_?” 

Ten minutes later, Yuuri found himself on the couch, swaddled up in what felt like every single blanket they owned (plus a couple that he’d never even seen before), Makkachin laid next to him with her head in his lap, keeping one eye on the younger of her two masters. If he shut his eyes, he could imagine that the angel-feather tendrils on her head belonged to Vicchan. 

Victor was crouched in front of their excessively large television, popping on a DVD copy of _My Neighbour Totoro._ He set the language to Japanese – even if it meant he wouldn’t be able to understand it, he sensed that Yuuri would appreciate the familiarity of it. He knew that Yuuri could recite every line from that film, that it was the first movie Yuuri had ever gone to see at the cinema, at a special kid’s club morning viewing. He’d been scared of Totoro at first, had screamed and hid his face in the airy blur of his mother’s blouse, but then imagined himself with a great, teddy-bear of a guardian like that – Totoro was one of the good guys. He wanted to ride the Catbus. Victor could remember Yuuri telling him how he’d once stayed stood at a bus stop all night, waiting to see if the Catbus would come, a long-suffering Mari at his side. He had taken a strip of raw salmon along with him as payment. _I know my Yuuri. I can look after him._  

Springing to his feet, Victor padded over to the sofa. He buried one hand in Makkachin’s fur and leant down to press a dandelion-light kiss to Yuuri’s forehead. On the coffee table were two mugs of steaming hot chocolate, the deeply rich scent diffusing through the modernist room and blurring all of the sharp edges. 

As soon as Victor sat down, Yuuri found himself clambering into the older man’s lap. He couldn’t help himself. Everything in him was crying out for _safety_ and _home_ , and that was Victor. Victor framed Yuuri with his arms to make battlements, tucked his chin atop the smaller man’s hair. 

“Do you, maybe, want to talk about it?” Victor’s voice was a harsh prod into the pastel quiet of the room. According to the clock on the wall it was a smudge past two in the morning. 

“About what?” Yuuri shifted away just enough to be able to blink up at his fiancé. 

“Your nightmare.” He rubbed a thumb along Yuuri’s forearm, tracing the map of his vein. “It must have been pretty bad. You scared the hell out of me.” 

“Oh.” Yuuri seemed to shrink on himself. “I’m sorry. I am. I. I didn’t mean to wake you.” He pulled his knees up to his chest and hid his face in them, a moon between mountains. “You can go back to bed if you want, Vitya."

“No. _No._ ” Hurt bled into Victor’s voice; how could Yuuri think he would be able to sleep after hearing his fiancé, the love of his life, screaming like that? Did Yuuri really think so little of him? Victor cared, tried so hard to care, and Yuuri, apparently, didn’t even notice. A hard lump crystallised in his throat. “I’m staying right here with you. For as long as you need.” 

Yuuri nodded once, stiffly. Victor had sounded angry. Hurt? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure what Victor was feeling and that _frightened_ him. He trusted the Russian, loved him so much that it felt like bleeding, but this didn’t feel right. It burnt. It itched. He couldn’t get comfortable on the couch. Not until Victor tugged him in close again, threaded his arms around Yuuri and stitched him back together, if only for the moment. 

Any questions that had been pushing at Victor died on his lips. Every time he opened his mouth, it seemed, he did something wrong. If Yuuri wanted to talk to him, he would. Victor knew that. He just had to wait. 

Slowly, the tension dripped from Yuuri and he let himself relax against Victor. _Warm. Home. Safe._ _Warmhomesafe._

 

* * *

 

Everything felt impossibly heavy. Each step was a monumental effort, as though gravity had a personal vendetta against Victor. He liked his sleep. In a past life, he thought, he had perhaps been a koala. That kind of life appealed to Victor; going nowhere fast, sleeping 22 hours out of the day and spending the other two hours eating. _Maybe when I retire._  

Currently, however, he was running on fumes. He had indeed stayed up as long as Yuuri had needed him – which had just so happened to be for the remainder of the night. He had watched as black blurred to purple to red to orange to yellow to white to blue outside of his window, in his own personal patch of sky. It had almost been enough to make him believe in magic. He had offered to spend the day at home with Yuuri, but Yuuri had insisted that he go to the rink. Something about not being a burden. Everything was alright. Yuuri was fine. So Victor had hauled some clothes on and dragged himself over to the rink. He hadn’t even bothered to brush his hair which, unwashed, looked more grey than platinum. 

Yurio was already in the locker room, slouched against the wall and sipping a coffee, when Victor plodded in. It was a testament to how awful Victor must have looked that Yurio immediately brandished the paper coffee cup out in his direction. It was so bitter that Victor almost choked on it. 

“You look like shit, old man.” 

“Yeah, well. Wait until you have a significant other, Yurio. You’ll wonder how I ever made it look so easy.” 

“This is over Yuuri? _Again?”_ Crouched over to do up the laces of his ice skates, Victor was fairly certain he heard Yurio’s jaw hit the floor. Yurio shook his head. “I wash my hands of you. You are a lost cause.” And with that, shaking his head, Yurio strutted out of the locker room. 

Sighing to himself, Victor stood up and flexed his feet. There was a pinch over the bridge of his left foot where he’d tugged the lace too hard. Oh well. There was no way that he was going all the way back down there to redo it. His mind flickered to Yuuri. Was he angry with his fiancé? No. Of course he wasn’t. But what he was feeling didn’t exactly feel like love. It was an ache with sharp edges, and it settled in his core. Things were fine, but at the same time they _weren’t_ and, for some godforsaken reason, ignoring it wasn’t making it miraculously disappear. Things weren’t supposed to go wrong. Not for The Victor Nikiforov. Not love. Victor had never read a fairytale that ended ‘ _and they all lived happily ever after, apart from they didn’t.’_  

Getting out to the rink was an effort. Victor felt sure that the ground had shifted overnight to be on a steep incline.

“Victor.” He raised his head to see Yakov sat in one of the spectator seats. The coach gestured for him to come over and Victor considered pretending he hadn’t seen – the last thing he needed was Yakov yelling at him for not resting properly – but then decided against it. Yakov squinted up at him. “Wow. Yuri was right. You _do_ look like shit. Take a seat.” Victor threw himself down next to Yakov, sort of glad that the heavy action irritated the bruise from where Yuuri had pushed him over. Had that really only been 24 hours ago? “Let me guess. Katsudon.” 

“ _Katsudon?”_ Victor raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been spending too much time with Yurio.”

“That’s his name, isn’t it? Your boyfriend.” 

“He’s my _fiancé._ ” There was something fierce about the way he said the last word, like the lick of a flame. “And his name is Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki. Katsuki Yuuri.” 

The reaction was instant and so obvious that even Victor, in his exhaustion-blurred state, picked it up. Eyes bugging out and then settling into a look of realisation, something like a _eureka!_ moment but more stilted. Mouth stretching to form a flattened sort of bridge. Forehead creases rearranging into a riddle that not even Victor, who had known Yakov for almost as long as he’d known the sky was blue, could decipher. The older man’s hands furled in on themselves, morphing into loose fists. Eyebrows jutted inwards, the way they did when Yakov was trying to come to terms with one of his skater’s getting an unjustly low score. 

“Yakov?” Victor’s voice could have cut glass. “What is it?” 

“Yuuri Katsuki.” Yakov mumbled the name like he had just found buried treasure. “ _Yuuri Katsuki_. Why didn’t you tell me that was his name before?” 

“I. I _have_. I talk about Yuuri all the time, Yakov.” Victor shifted uncomfortably in his already uncomfortable seat. Was this what a midlife crisis looked like? Should he call somebody? Who did you call when your figure skating coach was having a midlife crisis? 

“Yes, yes, I know you do. You never bloody stop. But not Yuuri _Katsuki._ ” The look of awed shock shattered from Yakov’s face in favour of a jovial grin that didn’t quite make sense. He slapped the side of Victor’s arm the way he had when Victor won his first gold medal. “Yuuri damn Katsuki.” He let out a gust of laughter. “What a small world it is.” 

“What? You’re not making any sense.” Victor bridged his fingers over his nose and stuck his eyes shut. He could feel fibres of sleep weave and fuse together through his eyelashes, and it was an effort to prise them apart again. He really didn’t have the patience for this. Not right now. “I’m really not in the mood, Yakov. Say what you mean or let me get on with practice.” 

Yakov’s face fell and, somewhere in the back of his mind, Victor felt guilty. Vaguely. Mostly, though, he just felt tired. And confused. 

The zoom-swoosh of skaters out on the rink – Phichit, Mila and Yurio – cooled Victor’s temper. As long as he could remember that had been the soundtrack to his life; the bittersweet glide of blades against ice, the solid rattle of landing a good jump, the roar of the crowd, the snap-flash of cameras. The latter two weren’t present here, rendering it a lullaby rendition. He scattered his gaze out onto the rink. Yurio and Mila were rowing over something, Yurio’s hands scrunched into wildly animated fists whilst Mila just stood, curved at the waist, looking very much as though she were teasing a Chihuahua. Phichit was checkering through a step sequence that did all of the talking. Victor wondered what Yuuri was doing right at the very moment. He hoped he was curled up in bed with Makkachin, catching up on some sleep. But what if he had another nightmare, and Victor wasn’t there to wake him up? What if something happened, and Victor wasn’t there to protect him? What if somebody, right that second, was stealing his Yuuri away? Worry rang through him like poison, wrapping its tight coils around his heart.

“Vitya.” Yakov sighed and shook his head. “I think you should take the day off today. Rest is just as important as work. Just don’t make a habit out of it.” 

“Yakov.” Victor’s voice was flint. It was a command. “You _know_ Yuuri.” 

“No, I don’t. But I know _of_ him. He was pretty big.” 

“Big? In what?” Victor’s forehead scrunched in bafflement. “He’s only small.”

The features of Yakov’s face softened, his tightly crossed arms loosened. Victor knew that look; it was the one Yakov gave when he told a skater that they had done well, even though they _really_ hadn’t. It was an All Hope Is Lost So I Might As Well Be Nice look. Usually, it preceded the Are You Sure Skating Is For You talk. 

Victor sat there, open-mouthed and open-eyed. Open-souled. But then Yakov heaved to his feet, the movement an entire production, and strode to the barrier to yell at Mila and Yurio, that _Mila, that’s not very ladylike_ and _Yuri, practice over there and if I hear one more peep out of you so help me God._ Victor’s mind drifted and wondered, _so help me God what?_  

Sluggishly, Victor’s mind caught up and he clattered after his coach. All Victor wanted was, just this one blessed time, for things to be simple. Straightforward. 

“What do you know about Yuuri.” It wasn’t a question. “Tell me, Yakov, or the headline on the six o’clock news will be that living legend Victor Nikiforov has retired.” 

“Well, at least then I might be able to have a quiet life.” Yakov shook his head, and there was a slither of pity in his old, worn eyes. “You don’t know a lot about this boyfriend of yours, do you?” 

“He’s my _fiancé._ And I know all of the things that matter.” 

“And yet,” Yakov growled, turning his head over his shoulder, “you seem completely unaware that he used to be a skater.” 

The world slipped away from Victor in a chalky smudge and he stumbled, his feet struggling to find solid ground. His insides felt like they were shrinking and melding into one liquid mass, oozing out of his pores in sweat that felt more like blood. Victor was vaguely conscious that his head was shaking back and forth, his hair fanning with the movement, but he didn’t realise that he was making it happen. Nothing made sense. His body wasn’t his. The world wasn't turning. Or maybe it was turning too fast, or the young way.

It couldn’t be true. It just _couldn’t be._ Victor would know. He just _would._ Yuuri would have told him. But he hadn’t. And to Victor, right then, that felt just as good as lying. _You don’t lie to the person you love. You don’t lie to the person you’re supposed to love._  

“Shake your head all you want, Vitya, but it’s true.” Yakov heaved out a sigh. “I’m giving you the day off. Go home and talk to your boyf-, your _fiancé._ That’s an order.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Yuuri felt stressed, he cleaned. They had a dishwasher, but Yuuri found something calming about getting into the rhythm of scrubbing plates and bowls by hand, about the way the water formed a placid swell through his fingers. He liked to use double the amount of washing up liquid than was strictly necessary and craft cloudlike castles out of the bubbles. Currently, he was doing just that. He had the radio, a little kitschy tin thing, turned up loud and he found himself singing along to a popular American rock song. 

Things were okay. He’d had a nightmare, one that he usually managed to hold off until daytime where it stuck to the backs of his eyes, but he was okay. A little bit shaken, but then Victor had been there to tuck him back together. The fear, the breath-snatching horror had almost been worth it, just to have Victor look at him like that, like he was precious, like he would always be safe. Even if just for a moment. He’d never had someone to hold him like that. 

He reached across and turned the radio up. A new song. Yuuri couldn’t keep up with the rushed, tripping Russian of the singer, but it sounded happy. Like pure, unadulterated sunlight bottled and broadcast. Makkachin, apparently, did understand the lyrics and was barking along happily. Yuuri spun from the sink and held his hands outwards, at waist height. 

“May I have this dance?” There was music in his voice and it floated around the room like incense. Makkachin yapped her aquiessence. She reared up and planted her front paws in Yuuri’s hands, letting him sway them in time to the radio. Her tail was wagging so fast that it turned to a blur. “Oh, you are a prima ballerina, Makka! Such grace! Such beauty!” 

The song shrilled to a stop and Yuuri released Makkachin’s paws. She licked at his hands, the flickering, wet touch tickling Yuuri into fresh fireworks of laughter. Yuuri hated his laugh – the bite of it, the tendril wheezing, the messy abandon of it, the way his cheeks plunged into redness – but with nobody other than Makkachin around he made no effort to button it in. He laughed and laughed until his sides burnt in the best of ways. Makkachin circled him, pressing her head to his legs at regular intervals. 

He was so busy laughing, so busy getting lost in feeling so fundamentally _good_ that he didn’t hear the front door open and then slam shut. He didn’t hear Victor drop his jacket, pick it up again, and then force it angrily onto the coatrack. He didn’t hear the heartbeat thud of Victor’s footsteps. 

“Yuuri.”

The addressed spun his head around to look up at the Russian, stood in the doorway like a marble statue. Yuuri was crouched on the cold tiles, his hands ruffling through Makkachin’s corkscrew curls. He beamed up at Victor. An onlooker might have described the scene as a modern day take on a Renaissance painting of worship. The room was full of a tangy, citric scent that bubbled up your nose – the washing up liquid Yuuri had doused the sink with. 

Brown eyes crashed into blue, and the force of the impact knocked the smile from Yuuri’s lips. As slow as a tree growing, Yuuri stood. His eyes fell to the floor. He didn’t want to see Victor look at him like that. Like he was a stranger. A traitor. _Disgusting_. Like he could see into the Underneath, where Yuuri was rotten and broken and cracked. Yuuri knew he was worthless, that he was _nothing,_ and he knew that one day Victor would realise it too. But not today. Not so soon. _Please. Just a little longer._   _I like it in the light._

“Victor? Has something happened?” He forced his voice out, like a knife through skin. “Vitya?” 

“ _Don’t.”_ Victor stepped backwards, slouching against the wall. To Yuuri it looked as though someone had let all of the air out of his fiancé. “Don’t call me that.” Victor threaded a hand in his silver hair, just tight enough for it to scald. “Who _are_ you, Yuuri?” 

“I. I’m Yuuri. Your Yuuri.” The words stumbled out of his mouth, whisper-soft. Was it a trick question? What answer would make Victor smile? What answer would make Victor love him? Yuuri wracked his brain, his thoughts tripping over themselves in a hectic, writhing mass. “I’m your fiancé. I love you.” 

“I don’t know _who_ you are. _What_ you are.” Victor stepped forwards. In his head, he was on the ice. He would not fall. He would be strong. He was The Victor Nikiforov, for God’s sake, and if he wanted something he would damn well get it. “You’re a _skater_. And I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me.” His voice fizzled out, going from a fierce roar down to an almost-silent, wet mew. He was hurting. He was hurting so cataclysmically much. Yuuri had never seen someone look so lost. “I didn’t know,” he mumbled. “You didn’t tell me.” 

“Vitya. _Victor.”_ The words bled from Yuuri. He stepped forwards and it was the hardest thing he had ever done. The world bleached around him. Tilted. Slipped. “I. I couldn’t tell you.” 

“Why not? Why the _hell_ not, Yuuri?” He sounded tired rather than angry, and that scared Yuuri all the more. His insides flooded with smoke and he wasn’t sure if there would be anything left once it cleared. “We’re supposed to be in _love_.” 

It dully registered with Yuuri that Makkachin was growling. She was stood in front of Yuuri, her feet planted in islands. Her teeth were bared, bared at _Victor._ Makkachin was a teddy bear but right now she was a wolf. 

 _Supposed to be in love_. The words flashed in Yuuri’s mind like a swarm of full-stops. An invisible hand squeezed around Yuuri’s throat, only instead of fingers it had razor blades and everything hurt and blurred and ached and he couldn’t think or breathe or do anything other than force himself not to cry. 

“ _Please_.” Even to his own ears Yuuri sounded pathetic. _Worthless. Why would Victor want you?_ “Victor, I can’t.” 

Of all of the things Victor could have done, nothing could have hurt Yuuri more than what he did, in fact, do. He laughed. It was a gunshot sound, and it pierced Yuuri between the eyes. Makkachin let out a harsh barking sound in response. A threat. A warning. 

Victor shook his head and pressed himself away from the wall. Hurt and fury burnt through him, and it made him all the more beautiful. _Gods,_ Yuuri found himself thinking, _are supposed to be wrathful._  

The footsteps echoed in surround sound as Victor strode through to the living and then to the front door in his grand, swanlike strides. Yuuri followed after him, each step a vicious wrestle with the voice in his head cooing _let him go, let him go, don’t be selfish, let him go, he deserves so much better, let him go, do one decent thing with your life and let him go._  

“Vitya,” Yuuri panted out. There was nothing he could do to hold in the tears and they carved deep trails down his cheeks. Could tears leave scars? These felt like they might. Makkachin stayed by his side like a shadow. “Where are you going?” 

“Out.” Victor didn’t turn back; he knew if he did then those big brown eyes would melt him and he would collapse. He couldn’t give in. He had to make a point. All he wanted was for Yuuri to tell him the truth, and it hurt him down to his bones. No. Not just hurt. It _frightened_ him. If Yuuri – sweet, kind, perfect Yuuri – could be so dishonest, did that mean he even loved Victor at all? He had to. Without Yuuri’s love it was all pointless. Nothing mattered if he didn’t matter to Yuuri. So that was the crux of it; Victor was _scared_. And all he wanted was for it to stop. “I’m going out. I’m going to find someone who will tell me  _anything_ I want to hear. If I were you I wouldn’t wait up.” 

The slam of the front door didn’t echo, but in all of the ways that mattered, it did.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. I ummed-and-ahhed over whether to include Yuuri's dream sequence or to just go straight to having Victor wake up to him screaming - I opted to go with the former for a few reasons. Firstly, because I wanted to shed a smudge of light onto why Yuuri quit skating, and I know that I've kept you guys waiting on that for maybe a little bit too long. Secondly, I really wanted to show how much the incident/quitting skating impacted Yuuri's character development in this AU; yes, he still had anxiety anyway, but at least on the ice he felt somewhat comfortable and was using it to build up his confidence, but then that got snatched away, amplifying his anxiety. Thirdly, I wanted to show that Yuuri, much like in the anime, looked up to Victor as a skater, hero-worshipped him (and still kind of does).
> 
> 2\. The whole Totoro/'I know my Yuuri' bit. Victor is recalling this memory to convince himself that he does know his fiance, because I think he's maybe starting to doubt that a little bit. In fact, I think he's doubting his ability to make Yuuri happy which is weird for Victor who has never failed at anything before, but by pointing out this one in-depth detail, he's making himself feel better. Kind of like, I can't put out the fire but I can blow out the candle.
> 
> 3\. Victor is starting to feel really insecure and inadequate, because it's clicking into place that there are things Yuuri won't tell him, which manifests as as frustration and worry. Yuuri, in turn, interprets this as anger - he knows he's done something wrong, but he can't figure out what, which is making him even more anxious. Victor, in turn, misinterprets this too, and thus nothing actually gets said because they're both scared of making a bad situation worse. Also, Victor is almost more focused on his own feelings rather than Yuuri's immediately after the nightmare, which is kind of shitty. But he's always been the centre of his own universe, so he doesn't really understand how to share himself or how to add other people's thoughts/feelings into the equation. 
> 
> 4\. Victor's tiredness. Yes, it's literal, but it's also meant to be a little bit metaphorical, if that makes sense? Although (because this is an AU and it feels right) Victor and Yuuri are both a little younger than in the anime, Victor is still getting on in years in terms of his professional ice skating career, and I think he knows it. He's spreading himself too thin, which also affects his home life/relationship with Yuuri. He puts himself under a lot of stress.
> 
> 5\. The shock of finding about Yuuri's past is something that really frightens and hurts Victor. He feels lied to, and what if everything about Yuuri is a lie, even his love for Victor? But Victor isn't used to being scared, so he moulds it into anger. All he wants is the truth (and for things to be unrealistically perfect) and he doesn't understand why he can't have it at the click of his fingers. So he does the whole let's-shatter-Yuuri's-glass-heart thing again. He does have a right to be angry in this situation, but he's so busy focusing on his own feelings that he doesn't stop to think that there might be a good reason for Yuuri not telling him about skating. He doesn't fully mean the things he says, he's just hurting, and hey, Yuuri's a doormat, so Victor can do what he likes, right? (Wrong.)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and an especially big thank you to the people who have left comments (comments seriously make my day!), and I really hope you enjoyed it! :)
> 
> Next chapter will feature Phichit as The Yuuri Katsuki Defence Squad, Yurio as Victor's Jiminy Cricket, and an extraordinarily troubling phonecall.


	8. Home

 

 

“He’s gone, he’s gone. _Kuso. Ie ni kaeritai_.” Japanese. _Fuck. I want to go home._ “He’s gone, he left, h-he, he, I. I _ruined_ it. I’ve fucking ruined it.” 

“Yuuri. Breathe. You need to breathe.” 

“No. No, I don’t.” _What I need is for Victor be here._  

“Yes. You do. Come on now, breathe for me.” Phichit’s voice was opal. Milky. Calming. But, underneath it, a hard edge of panic. He’d never heard Yuuri like this before, like someone was pressing a knife to his neck and the reason it was upsetting Yuuri was because it wasn’t slicing straight through his jugular already. Silence prowled out through the phone, and Phichit found the limits of his body blurring with _oh shit oh shit oh shit._ “Yuuri?” 

“I’m h-here.” His voice was a groan. “Victor isn’t.” 

“No, but.” Phichit, a couple of floors below, sprung off of his bed. Yuuri heard muffled curse words as the Thai skater stumbled around looking for his shoes only to give up and decide that socks alone would be sufficient. “But _I_ will be. Okay? I’m coming. You’re at home, right?” 

Yuuri didn’t know. Was he at home? He was in Victor’s apartment, on the floor wedged firmly into the slither of space between the fridge and the dishwasher, but was that still home? He wasn’t sure. The uncertainty made him nauseous. How long had he been curled in that tight (small, safe, protected) space? He wasn’t sure. An hour? No. It had been longer than that. The echo of the door slamming behind Victor had smudged into a metallic ripple, aftershocks of an earthquake. It had been light out when Victor had left, but now the kitchen was cast in a pale shade of charcoal. Nothing was certain. There were no constants left. It was all grey. Yuuri couldn’t be fucking _sure_ of anything and he was spreading himself too thin as he tried to hold it all together. 

“Yuuri?” 

“I’m at Victor’s.” It was the best answer he could come up with. 

There was a click-blur as, Phichit assumed, Yuuri hung up. He sprinted along the corridor, vaulted the stairs. A clumsy man, under any other circumstance Phichit would probably have fallen and snapped something important, but it was like an out-of-body experience. He was watching himself move with the fluidity of a stream racing down a vertical slope, raindrops down a car window. This, he was certain, was an emergency, and adrenaline was there to lend a helping hand. 

He knew there was no point knocking on the door. The spare key was in the plant pot, under a thin veil of gravel (the plant was a waxy-plastic but overall convincing fake that resembled a sort of mini palm tree) and he plucked it up, tiny stones tucking themselves in under his nails. The key slotted into the lock, its teeth digging in, and Phichit twisted hard enough to give his wrist a painful twinge that would resonate for the next few days. But he didn’t care about that. He _couldn’t_ care about that. Not right now. Not when Yuuri had called him up out of nowhere, sounding very much like his lungs were full of pregnant storm clouds and that he was breathing in thunder, lightning. Later Phichit would reflect that he’d never known what grief was until he’d had that phone call. 

Makkachin met him at the door, her eyes wide and wild, her tale tucked weakly between her legs. He reached down to pet her, but she instead took the cuff of Phichit’s jacket between her teeth and tugged. He nodded. He was there to do a job. He was there to make his best friend hurt a little less. Also – if the occasion should so arise, which he hoped it would – he was there to strike the fear of God into Victor Nikiforov. 

The sight that met Phichit in the kitchen broke his heart. He loved Yuuri deep down to his cells, his fibres saturated in it, and there is no grand hierarchy of love; romantic love can be as capacious, as fundamentally vital as platonic love. Phichit couldn’t picture a world without Yuuri in it. Not a world that he would want to be in, that would have a space for him, anyway, because the only space he slotted into was the one at Yuuri's side. It hadn’t even been a year since Phichit had met the shy (wonderful, kind, sweet, smart) Japanese man, but Yuuri had already settled snugly into a space in his heart that would be all too hollow without Yuuri there to fill it. 

He dropped down to a crouch and then lurched forwards into a kneel. For a moment he wasn’t even sure that Yuuri – who had curled up in a ball like a hedgehog, wedged into the impossibly tight space between two large kitchen appliances – realised that Phicht was there. He took stock of his friend’s face, of the creased squeezing of his eyelids, of the sudden spill of tears, and Phichit knew that his presence had indeed been registered. 

“ _Yuuri_ ,” he breathed. “What happened?” 

For a static moment Phichit thought that maybe, just _maybe_ , it might actually be that easy. But then no. The most Yuuri would give was the rusted opening of his eyes. They were like two pools, deceptively deep. Shadows passed through them. Sea monsters. 

Yuuri didn’t say what had happened. He _couldn’t._ What if Phichit agreed with Victor? What if Phichit left him too? At that thought a new line of tears fringed his eyelashes. Everything was falling apart and Yuuri was completely helpless to stop it. The edges cut him as they slipped through his fingers. 

 _I wouldn’t wait up if I were you_. Yuuri knew what that meant. He didn't understand a lot about people, but he understood that. 

“Hey. _Hey._ Breathe.” Phichit reached out and planted his palm against Yuuri’s chest. Yuuri could feel the candle-warmth through his shirt. “There we go.” Phichit was smiling at him and although Yuuri knew that it was a shade of earnest fakeness, it did make the kitchen seem a little brighter, a little less cold. A slither of _home_ returned to him. He found Phichit’s hand with his own and gave a little squeeze. _Thank you_. “Now. Why don’t you tell me what Victor’s done now?” 

“I. It.” Yuuri’s tongue darted out and wet his lips. His mouth felt like it was fall of gravel, a roadrash of the soul. His throat was lined with sandpaper that scraped every time he swallowed. “He just, came home. Early. And.” The words were gummy and cloying. _I can’t tell Phichit. I can’t tell him what a liar I’ve been._ “We rowed. He told me not to wait up. Th-that. That means, he’s. He’s gone to look for someone else. That’s what it means. Isn’t it?” Even saying that much felt like a deep betrayal of Victor. _He didn’t do anything wrong. This was all me._ “I’m not angry with him.” 

Maybe, though, he was. Just a little bit. Angry in the same way that a sapling knows it’s going to grow into a towering oak; subtle, flowing. Instinctive. He didn’t want to be, and maybe the anger wasn’t directly meant for Victor, but it was something simmering in his gut. Just under the hurt. 

Phichit watched his friend, his face tugged into a stiff mask of _this isn’t right._ He ran his thumb lightly over Yuuri’s knuckles. _I’m here. Even if he isn’t, I am._   _Please let me be enough._

“I am,” Phichit found the words drifting out of his mouth like steam. The tone felt foreign to Phichit’s tongue. It burnt. He was breathing in ash and exhaling fire. “I’m angry with him. Victor can’t treat you like this. It’s manipulative. It’s _wrong_. I’m gonna deck him. Can I deck him?” 

A sound like a crack of light surprised its way out of Yuuri’s lips. He couldn’t imagine Phichit, a boy made of sunlight and candyfloss and hamsters, punching anyone. The idea of it was comical. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Phichit’s hands form into fists. He shook his head, but appreciated the offer nonetheless. 

Phichit gently pulled his hand away. He bounced up onto his feet, to flick the kitchen light on. Yuuri winced; had he really been in the dark so long that the light burned? He creaked himself up too, unfolding his body and rubbing at the back of his neck where it throbbed. It was a painful throb, but a good one – it anchored him, didn’t let him drift back off into a metaphysical crawl space. 

Yuuri let himself be guided (by Phichit at his hands, by Makkachin at his ankles) to the sofa. The world was still spinning even if Yuuri’s own personal universe had exploded in a pinprick of light. He was vaguely aware of Phichit talking, of new stars and suns being born into the darkness, of everything shifting. The creases of his paper crane were being reworked, but into what? A paper aeroplane, he thought. Cold and hard but efficient. The opposite of beautiful. But it would get the job done. 

Not right now though. Right now, Yuuri could feel his body getting bogged down with exhaustion, his cells getting tacky with it. Panic and anxiety and nerves would do that to a person, would leech all colour and life away until they were nothing but an empty shell on a never-ending beach, bleached by the sun and the salt. 

Phichit, who was rabbiting away about how Yuuri deserved better but at the same time Victor _was_ under a lot of stress, didn’t even realise Yuuri was asleep until Makkachin put a paw up on his knee, a soft _shush_. He looked across and saw that Yuuri’s body had curled softly in on itself, his face pressed into the arm of the sofa. Relief rippled through Phichit, his insides cooling to room temperature. It was over, for the moment at least, and he didn’t have to watch his best friend tear himself apart. He let half an hour stretch out, just to make sure that Yuuri was definitely out for the count, and then he scooped the older boy up. Skating had made him strong, and carrying Yuuri was as easy as cradling a toddler. 

Once Phichit had tucked Yuuri in, he watched as Makkachin fold up at her master’s side. The crack of his heart was audible as Yuuri shifted over to be on Victor’s side of the bed (identifiable by the contents of the bedside table – two gold medals in commemorative frames, a tattered postcard showing a faded image of the Chicago skyline, a copy of _War and Peace,_  its spine unbroken,in its native language that could have doubled as a doorstop). He made a small, unpreventable noise at seeing Yuuri fasten his arms around Victor’s pillow. Yuuri’s face softened as he breathed in _peppermint_ and _frost_ and _pine,_ all equating to _home._  

Phichit shook his head. He loved Yuuri. He loved Victor. He loved the two of them together, as one entity. But Yuuri – sweet, kind Yuuri, deserved better than this. He adjusted the covers over Yuuri, making sure he was tucked in as tight as a hug, and went back through to the living room, his phone already in is hand like a gun. 

 _Contacts. Victor Nikiforov. Call._  

It rang once, twice, three times and, then, _Hello! You have reached the phone of The Victor Nikiforov. He’s busy right now either winning gold medals or doing unspeakable things to his gorgeous fiancé. Leave a message and he’ll get back to you_. Victor’s voice was bouncing, jumping, flying. His accent curved and flicked around _fiancé_. It occurred to Phichit that this was just a minor drama, just a small bump in the long, winding road that constituted a relationship, but no. Yuuri wouldn’t stick up for himself, so Phichit would do it for him. 

“The Victor Nikiforov, this is _The Phichit Chulanont_ , best friend of your _gorgeous fiancé_.” He took a deep breath, and let the rest of his words come in a crimson flurry. “He’s just cried himself to sleep because of you. How could you? _How could you_? He wouldn’t tell me all of it. But I know enough to know that you don’t deserve someone like Yuuri.” He sighed and softened. “That boy _adores_ you, Victor. Please know a good thing when you have it. I know he’s shy. I know he struggles, and maybe sometimes that can be frustrating. But he has so much _good_ in him. Right now he’s terrified that you’re not going to come home. Just. Just please do. Please come home. To Yuuri. I won’t be able to put him back together if you don’t. And I _know_ , okay? I know you need him just as much as he needs you. Maybe even more. Because one day you won’t be able to skate anymore, and you’ll need a home to come back to. You're just a man.” 

He let static snap through the air for a reflective moment, and then hung up. Briefly he wondered if taking a photograph of his sleeping best friend would be overstepping a certain boundary; he decided that it wouldn't be, if it was for the greater good. He snapped a shot of Yuuri – who had since curved his entire body protectively around Victor’s pillow – and sent it to Victor.

A picture, after all, is worth a thousand words.

 

* * *

 

Victor was sprawled out on a double bed. It was comfy, marshmallow soft, and he made a note to ask where the sheets had been bought from – they felt as though God himself had sewn them together with angel hair. He would stay the night, he decided. _Just long enough to make Yuuri worry. Just long enough to make him realise_. 

He was still hurting, but it had gone from a deep, atom-splitting agony to a winded sort of cramp. He just needed time away from the source of the pain, let it echo out of him. Anger had, of course, melted into love, because when it came to Yuuri how could Victor possibly feel anything else? It had been a nasty shock, like stepping forward to find you’d run out of ground to tread on, and it had altered Victor’s view of his fiancé. But he still _loved_ him. He didn’t think he was capable of stopping. He ached to run his fingers over those collar bones, his lips over those hips; but he would refrain. A lesson had to be taught. Make Yuuri worry just _enough_ and then, tomorrow morning, Victor was sure, the Japanese man would tell all. It was a sound strategy. He would, of course, forgive Yuuri, and the reunion would be deliciously _in flagrante_. They would be stronger for it (by which, Victor meant, he would know what he wanted to know). The make-up sex, Victor was sure, would be one for the history books. 

“Your phone is vibrating.” His companion grunted from where he was sprawled next to Victor. “You should probably answer. What if it’s Katsudon?” 

“Don’t act like you _care_ , Yurio.” Victor’s reply sounded waspish even to his own ears, but he couldn’t help it – he knew the younger Russian was right, and he couldn’t stand it. “You answer it if you want.” 

Yurio sighed and plucked Victor’s phone from the bedside table, bridging over his older friend to do so. He wasn’t sure if he intended to answer it or not, but letting it just _ring_ seemed wrong somehow. Like he was holding a puppy up by its tail over shark-infested water. For all of his sharpness, Yurio was not _cruel_ (and if he was, he never _really_ meant to be). He paused to notice that Victor’s wallpaper was a selfie of the three of them – Victor, Yurio and Yuuri – taken along the Bund, Shanghai, when they’d travelled there for the Worlds. Victor was beaming directly into the camera, and Yurio found himself wincing in the way you do when you look directly into the sun. Yurio himself was scowling at something out of shot, studiously looking as though he would have given his left leg to be anywhere else. Yuuri was gazing up at Victor, eyes stuck to the older man, starlight reflected against the ink-dark brown of his irises. Yurio shook his head to shake himself out of it, out of the wrongness of the entire situation. 

“It’s Phichit.” He put the phone back down. “Maybe you should go home, Vitya.”

“Hey.” Victor pouted at Yurio. “Don’t you want me here?” 

“No.” 

“Aw, c’mon.” He snaked his arm around Yuri’s shoulder and squeezed him into a handcuff of a hug. “What would you be doing if I wasn’t here? Moping? Writing emo poetry about how much you love that Kazakh boy?” 

“His name is _Otabek._ And I don’t _love_ him.” Yurio’s vehement hiss-roar only served to amuse Victor, who made a bright ‘ _hm’_ sound of almost-laughter. _This_ is what he had come for. “And I didn’t have plans. But watching paint dry would be better than watching you pine.” 

“I’m not _pining_. And you so do love _Otabek_.” Victor sang the name like it was some kind of playground chant. “I have yet to find an Instagram post of his that you haven’t commented on.”

“Shut your mouth or lose your teeth.” Yurio set his jaw, formed his hands into small meteorites.   

“Please. What’s the worst you’re gonna do? Bite my kneecaps?” 

The only warning he got was a low growling sound, and then Yurio was on him, throwing punches that were never designed to really hurt in the first place. Victor grabbed him by the wrists, open-mouth laughing. Yes, Yurio was still a kid. Victor could still wind him up, still put him in his place. Yurio glared up at him, his hair forming icy sheets across his pink-tinged cheeks. Victor raised an eyebrow; _maybe he really does like that Kazakh boy. Otabek._ _I’ll have to give him The Talk._  

When he was sure that Yurio wouldn’t go for him again, he released the fifteen-year-old’s twig-like arms. Victor smiled directly at him, that you-ain’t-shit-but-I-mean-it-with-affection smile. Yurio’s gaze snapped away from him almost immediately, at the fuzzy buzz of Victor’s phone. Again. 

“You really should answer that, you know.” Yurio shifted away into the centre of the bed and folded his legs up into a pretzel. Victor slumped back against the headboard, very much resembling a toddler being told that the sky couldn’t be pink just because he wanted it to be. “He’s your fiancé. You can’t ignore him forever.” 

“I can until tomorrow morning.” 

Yurio raked his eyes over Victor and to the older man it felt as though the teenager’s gaze could draw blood. Victor’s heart was a vacuous boom, right on the edge, on the brink. 

“You’re a _moron_ , Vitya. I love you – make a note of it because I’m _never_ saying that again – but you’re so damn _stupid_.” Yurio’s hands flailed wildly in gesticulation. In his eyes burnt a fire that spat out molten steel. “If you love someone you stick by them, Vitya, and you never go to sleep on an argument.” That was a piece of advice Yurio had taken from his grandpa, who seemed to know about these things. “You don’t _talk_ to him, Victor. When things go wrong you throw your toys out of your pram and you can’t _do_ that. You’re behaving like a _child_.” 

For a moment Victor just blinked at Yurio, and then let his gaze fall like ash onto his knees. He shook his head. Yurio was right. He _knew_ Yurio was right, and it made him feel about two inches tall. _He_ was the one who was supposed to be there to give _Yurio_ advice. 

“When did you get so wise, huh, Kitten?” Yurio had never heard that voice on Victor before – hollow and deep, like an expectant grave. 

“About the same time you got so stupid.” There was a slight warmth to Yurio’s voice, and Yurio told himself that he had let it seep in. He forced an eyeroll. “You need to be a man. Katsudon might be keeping secrets. Boo-fucking-hoo. But one thing that isn’t a secret is how much he likes.” He swallowed down the urge to vomit. _Victor better appreciate this._ “How much he _loves_ you. You’re both totally hopeless. But at least you’re totally hopeless _together._ ” Yurio heaved out a melodramatic sigh. “So piss off home.” 

 _Totally hopeless together._ Victor liked the sound of that. 

He couldn’t go home though. Not yet. His wounds were still too raw. Yuuri had lied, even if only by omission, and Victor ached, hungered for the truth. He starved for it. _Yuuri had been a skater._ And he was sure that the only way to get the truth out of Yuuri’s lips would be to scare it out of him. No, ‘scare’ was too strong a word. To worry it out of him, would perhaps be more accurate. It was harmless. Totally harmless. Just make him worry enough about losing Victor that he would become malleable in the older man’s hands. Victor would get what he wanted, and nobody would be the worse for it. If he just kissed Yuuri the right way he would be forgiven, if there was indeed anything to be forgiven for (Victor wasn’t sure on this matter, just that thinking about Yuuri made his insides churn and the ground beneath his feet warp in wholly unpleasant ways). Maybe, once he knew the truth, he could even get Yuuri out on the ice again. 

Besides, Victor was too proud to go home. 

So he smiled brightly at Yurio and popped out a simple, “no.” 

Yurio face-planted straight into his pillow and made a sound not too dissimilar to a scream. 

 

* * *

 

Victor – who had slept on the floor after being literally kicked out of bed by Yurio, who was an extraordinarily violent sleeper for one so small – was woken by the razor glare of winter sunshine pricking at his closed eyes. It took a constellation of moments for him to remember where he was; that he was not in bed, that he was not at home, that Yuuri would not be in the kitchen making them pancakes for breakfast. _Yuuri. My Yuuri._ It was a pang, and the way it echoed reminded Victor of just how empty, how cavernous, his heart was without Yuuri in it.

In the cold light of day Victor felt, simply put, awful. He just wanted to go home, reel Yuuri into his arms and hold him tight. He wanted to feel Yuuri’s eyelashes against his neck. He wanted to hear Yuuri’s heartbeat against his chest, pressed tight and close, the way it beat _just for Victor._  

He wanted to know everything. And he would. When he strolled through the door, with a bouquet that he’d pick up on the walk home, Yuuri would spill everything. Or so he hoped. And if Yuuri didn’t, then Victor would accept it. He would force himself to. Besides, he was sure he could weasel more information out of Yakov if he absolutely had to. Hell, he could even Google it.  _But no,_ Victor thought,  _that's not the point_. He wasn't sure precisely what the point was, just that Google-searching the information rather than finding it out organically wasn't it.

Victor stretched, drawing a sunrise with his arms. Yurio’s snoring purred out into the room and Victor pondered the most inventive way to wake the teenager up. A bucket of water to the face? No. That was old hat. Now, a  _cat_ to the face...

As he wracked his brains he reached up to the bedside table and groped around until his fingers hooked around his pone. His heart stopped at what he saw. _26 missed calls from Phichit Chulanont._ Automatically, his body doing what it knew it had to, he called his fiancé’s best friend. The split second between _Call_ and Phichit answering felt like purgatory, which was somehow a worse feeling than being in hell. It was the uncertainty that stung. 

“Victor! Where are you? Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” 

“Well, it’s only just gone seven. I’ve been asle-” 

“Yuuri’s gone. I stayed overnight because he was in such a state, but I woke up this morning and he’s gone. His clothes too. His toothbrush. He’s left a note.” There was a pause that burnt. “Victor, he’s gone to the airport. He’s flying home.” 

Victor wanted to say that this was nonsense, that St Petersburg _was_ Yuuri’s home. But then he stopped himself. Because Victor had torn _home_ away from Yuuri the night before. He’d walked away with it tucked calmly under his arm as though it were nothing. 

And, suddenly, Victor _saw_. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter:
> 
> 1\. Yuuri's reaction to Victor leaving might seem a little bit OTT, but my reasoning for this is that Yuuri is a long, long way from his family home, he only really has two people that he can call friends (Victor and Phichit), and he thinks he's finally maybe found this place where he belongs with Victor (a steady, safe feeling he hasn't fully had since the attack that knocked him out of skating) but now it's all being ripped away. It doesn't matter if he's being irrational or OTT because, when you have a panic attack, you can't reason these things out. All Yuuri can think is that Victor has gone, it's all his fault, and now he's profoundly alone which, to someone like Yuuri, is very frightening. He's given up everything to be in Russia with Victor, and now he sort of has nothing.
> 
> 2\. I am a strong believer of friend-love being just as important and just as strong as romantic-love. I think that a person's soulmate can be their best friend rather than their romantic partner, which is why I've written the Phichit-Yuuri scene in the way I have. If, however, you maybe want to read traces of romance (especially from Phichit) into it, then go ahead because I can kind of see that, reading it back. But it is meant as really deep friend-love. They're both in a similar sort of situation; they're both a long way from home for something they care about (Yuuri's there for Victor, Phichit is there for skating) and they both definitely identify with each other. Phichit is, perhaps, just as important to Yuuri as Victor is, hence why Phichit counts as 'home'.
> 
> 3\. What is Yuuri thinking? Underneath the initial panic, fear, upset etc, something has fundamentally changed. There is some part of him that's angry. He deserves better, and he's sort of realising that, thanks to the way Victor reacted to learning about the skating. He's miserable in Russia right now, and he doesn't want to be miserable anymore. He could maybe be not-miserable if he talked things through with Victor, but he doesn't fully trust Victor at the moment and, besides, he doesn't feel ready to discuss his demons. He loves Victor, but he's realising that love sometimes isn't enough.
> 
> 4\. Victor said/insinuated he was going out for some sweet sweet loving, so why is he at Yurio's? I imagine that Victor left with the intention (maybe) of cheating, or of at least going to a bar and chatting someone up just to prove that he could, but as soon as he left the apartment he felt guilty and pretty miserable about the whole thing. Being too proud to go home, he headed for the closest thing he has to family; Yurio. He wanted the consistency of banter, of them winding each other up. Slotting into this big brother role is giving him a purpose.
> 
> 5\. So by the end of this chapter, Victor has definitely learnt his lesson (sort of). He's realised that he's done wrong, and that he needs to treat Yuuri better - being without him for just one night has hurt him more than he thought possible. He knows what he's got to lose.
> 
>  
> 
> Remember that little playlist thing I did for Victor? Here's one for Yuuri:  
> \- Getaway by Mallory Knox  
> \- St Patrick by PVRIS (seriously I've listened to this song on repeat whilst writing this fic like this is it, this is The Fic Song)  
> \- All My Heart by Sleeping With Sirens  
> \- Air Catcher by Twenty One Pilots  
> \- You Might Have Noticed by The Academy Is...
> 
> Sorry for the super-long notes, thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! :)
> 
> Next chapter: for once in his life, Yuuri is letting himself be selfish.


	9. Turning Point

  

Victor had never moved so fast. Not even on the ice. He wasn’t even wearing shoes – there had been no time for such frivolities. The ground leapt up to meet his bare feet, each pounding step a stinging slap. 

How could he have been so stupid? No. It wasn’t stupidity, Victor realised, it was _selfishness._ He shouldn’t have walked out the night before, not on someone like Yuuri who would over-analyse it and work himself up into a state. But how was Victor to have known that he would react quite so extremely? Because this _was_ extreme, Victor decided, even for Yuuri. Anything to negate his own responsibility. If Victor accepted that this was all _totally_ his fault, then that would mean accepting that he’d hurt Yuuri, that he was wrong, that he had _failed_. 

 _The plane could have gone. He could already be half the world away_ , an annoying little voice scratched the words into his skull. Victor would know though, surely, if it was too late. He would have felt the thread connecting them, tied at each end to their rings, snap. _I would know._  

So he kept running. 

 _A taxi. I need a taxi._ His eyes crawled the road. It was early morning – a breath past seven – finding a taxi at that time should have been all but impossible. And then his gaze got snagged; there, just on the corner, maybe fifteen feet away. A grimy grey that was perhaps once white, with a stripe of checkering going around its middle. _A taxi._ Victor made a mental note to make some kind of holy offering to the gods of good fortune when he was back at home, Yuuri tucked safely under his arm. 

Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the sheer joy of finding a taxi (which must of course been a cosmic sign that everything was going to be fine), but Victor couldn’t stop himself smiling. The icy air collided with his teeth in spiked walls, but he didn’t care; this was _living_. He would have his Yuuri back. Everything would be fine. This would be a great story to tell the grandkids (of which they would have seven, Victor decided). Yes, that’s all it was – a story. 

He prised the door of the taxi open. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

Victor gawped. There, in this taxi that the universe had clearly sent directly to _him_ as a chariot of glory, was _someone else._ A scarecrow of a man donning a suit that was far too good for him. 

“I need this taxi.” Victor’s voice was a low growl, fierce enough to make wolves obey. But this man, apparently, was no wolf. He just stared, open-mouthed, at Victor, a vein in his forehead pulsing. 

“So do I. I’ve got a plane to catch.” 

“Ah, you’re going to the airport?” Just like that, Victor’s face melted into something blindingly bright. _Further proof that the universe is on my side._ “Wonderful. I have a fiancé to catch.” He clambered over the man, who was too shocked to respond, and into the taxi. He tapped his hand against the back of the driver’s seat twice, sharp and quick. “To the airport!” 

Victor, running his hands roughly through his hair and then touching a hand to his jaw to test for stubble, didn’t notice the driver meet the gaze of his original passenger in the rear view mirror, who was too stunned to do anything other than nod. The taxi lurched into movement, its frame vibrating. To look at Victor’s face, however, you would have thought he was in a limousine. 

He turned to his new travelling companion. Phone in one hand, he threw an arm around the passenger. 

“Do you want a photograph with me?” Victor asked, already shifting closer and holding his phone out at arm’s length. “I _am_ The Victor Nikiforov.” 

Right then, he was. So he might be travelling in a taxi with a total stranger, wearing nothing more than a pair of too-small pyjamas (borrowed from Yurio the night before), his hair unwashed for the past two days, but he was pulling this off. In a way that only The Victor Nikiforov could.

  

* * *

 

Pulkovo Airport, from the inside, resembled a piece of origami on a grand scale. Yuuri felt as though he’d tripped into the sound hole of a giant, space-age guitar. Airy. New. Cathedralesque. People rushed and bumped and pushed all around him. A river rushing around a rock. Everything moved in a Van Gogh blur. 

Checking in had been a struggle. He couldn’t find his words, and when he finally managed to reel something in for the poor lady behind the desk, it had been in wet, slippery Japanese. It had taken five false starts before he’d blurted his name, the time of his flight, where he was going, the card details that had been used to purchase his last minute – _last second_ – ticket. He’d used his own card rather than Victor’s (which he’d been told at least a million times was his as well) even if it had emptied his account. Well, not quite – he still had 800 rubles left. Just enough to buy a bottle of vodka at the duty free, if he was lucky. 

He couldn’t bring himself to cross that iron border of passport control. Not yet. _I want this to be home for just a little longer._  

So there he was sat, outside a Starbucks because Starbucks’ are everywhere and Yuuri liked constants. Seeing as he was saving his money for the duty free he hadn’t bought a coffee, and had been asked to leave, once in Russian and then again in slow, over-pronounced English. He had just blinked innocently and mewed the words, _no English. Je suis Nihongo. Im Urlaub. Gracias._ They’d left him alone after that. 

Everything hurt. It hurt so much that his body had shut off into numbness. All he knew was that he was at Pulkovo Airport, St Petersburg, waiting for an Emirates flight to Tokyo. And he was there because he was doing the right thing. Victor didn’t want him anymore. It wouldn’t be fair to cling, to weigh him down. It would be a high sin to make a star crash down to Earth. What’s more, Yuuri actually _wanted_ to go to Japan. He told himself his reasoning was selfless but at the same time it simply _wasn’t_. He wanted his mother to hug him, his father to pat his back, his sister to roll her eyes and pretend she didn’t care that he was maybe sort of falling apart. He wanted Yuuko to fawn over him, the triplets to beg him relentlessly to play hide-and-seek with them, Minako to drink him under the table, Takeshi to joke with him about something unimportant. He _needed_ those things. He needed to not feel so empty. He wasn’t empty because things had bled from him; he was empty because he’d been squeezed and crushed and wrung out. His non-emptiness had been robbed from him. But no, that sounded too much like anger, and Yuuri would not be angry. Not with Victor. Not _ever_. This was all his own doing and for that high crime, the crime of costing himself The Love of His Life, he was sentencing himself to exile. 

On his finger rested his ring. It caught the light and it looked as though it were laughing at him. He had thought about taking it off, but to do so would have been like taking the plug out of a metaphorical bath. He was nothing without that zero of gold looped around his finger, tethering him. It marked him as Victor’s, and that was something he would always be, just like he would always have brown eyes. 

Voices had been drifting over the speakers all morning, in both Russian and English. Yuuri had let them pass through him like ghosts. What was different about this announcement, however, was that it was in a butchered Frankenstein’s Monster of Japanese, and that it was being all but sung out by a voice that Yuuri knew as well as he knew his own heartbeat. _Victor._  

“ _Yuuri, ikanaide!” Yuuri, don’t go._ The words swooped through the airport on the wings of a dove. “I’m at the information desk. I know you’ve got to be here. You can’t have gone. Not yet. _Luchik._ Come back to me.” As soon as he had a destination, Yuuri was on his feet. He tried to force himself to walk, to pay attention to his surroundings lest he crash into someone. But that was impossible. He was sprinting, and the only thought in his head was _to hell with everyone else, get out of my way or get flattened._ It was like the invisible thread between their rings (because Yuuri knew Victor was wearing his, he just _did_ ) had suddenly gone taught and was hauling him in.   

By the time he reached the information desk he couldn’t feel his legs for the ache of them, nor could he really breathe properly. But he’d made it. And there was Victor, posing for photographs with the girl behind the desk. She was pretty. Big blue eyes, fixed on Victor like flies on meat. Yuuri felt a sudden rush of _mine_ that he’d never really felt before.   

“ _Vitya!”_ The word came out as an ugly sob sound, and Yuuri wasn’t quite sure how he felt. Was he happy? He thought he must be. But he wasn’t. Not if he thought about it. “Victor.” He forced his legs to jog up to the counter, and Victor vaulted over it to meet him. Halfway. “Victor. You. You’re wearing pyjamas.” 

“Yes! Yes I _am_.” Victor sounded as though thoroughly delighted by this fact. 

“And no shoes.” 

“Nope.”  

And then Victor was tugging Yuuri into his arms, threading their bodies together into one tight fibre. Yuuri pressed his nose to Victor’s chest, where the buttons of the pyjama shirt didn’t quite reach up high enough, and searched for _home_ but it didn’t come. He wound his arms around Victor’s waist, tying himself to the older man as though Victor were the only thing keeping him afloat. But still, the water came and slapped him down. Being held wasn’t enough. _Victor_ wasn’t enough. It was a moment of searing clarity.   

“Yuuri. _My_ Yuuri. _Luchik_ ,” Victor purred, his words melding into one solid, warm thing. “Let’s go home.”  

Yuuri stepped away from his fiancé. It was like he wasn’t himself anymore, like he was a disembodied ghost watching from the rafters. His insides felt like they were full of aerated water, expanding and splitting, expanding and splitting. _I have to do the right thing,_ he thought to himself. _Not for Victor. For me._   

“I can’t, Vitya.” It was an act of cowardice, Yuuri knew, to look away the second he saw diamonds forming in Victor’s eyes. No. Not diamonds. Tears. “I’m so sorry. I can’t.”  

“What, what do you mean, _Luchik?_ ” Victor pressed his hands firmly to Yuuri’s shoulders, then to his neck, to his cheeks, mapping everything out, feeling for a fever. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about yesterday. I forgive you.”  

 _I_ _forgive you_. That was all Yuuri needed. It felt like permission – from who or for what, he wasn’t quite sure.   

He reached up and pressed his lips to Victor’s. They felt dry, chapped, the weathered ruins of a castle. Victor was just a man. They both were. It was a chaste kiss, as brief and bare as a tree in winter. In that snapshot second their eyes met; blue melted, brown hardened. _You’ll thank me for this, Vitya. We both will_.   

“I love you.” Yuuri could feel the tremor in his voice, the way it was scratching the surface, about to break through. He swallowed past the dagger solidifying in his throat. For the first time in his life, he was going to be brave. “I love you _so much_. But it’s not enough. Not anymore. I can’t throw myself at you when I know you won’t catch me. And it’s unfair of me to ask you to try. There’s so much you don’t know, so much I _don’t want you to know,_ and you deserve better than that. I love you. I love _everything_ about you.”  

“Th-then. Then, Yuuri, _Luchik,_ let’s go home. You don’t have to tell me anything. I don’t care. We can sort this out. We can.” 

“No, Vitya. I. I don’t think we can. We’ve both given too much, and there’s not enough left.”  

Yuuri turned, and then he walked away. He didn’t look back until he’d reached passport control, to see a man wearing nothing but a pair of pyjamas several sizes too small collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing into his hands. Yuuri was too far away to hear, but he could feel the guttural, animalistic, earthquake sounds. He was glad that Victor wasn’t looking, because he would have seen that Yuuri was crying too, and it was such a profoundly selfish thing, to cry over a cut that he himself had made.   

He twisted his ring around his finger, running his thumb over it. It felt warm as a kiss. _How is he always so warm?_ But of course this was nonsense, because there was no invisible thread linking their rings.   

A crisp voice came over the speakers, _Emirates flight to Tokyo, Japan, last call._ Yuuri ripped his eyes from Victor and forced himself onwards. It felt like when you’ve been sick too many times and you’ve got nothing left to give but acid still claws itself up your throat anyway. The last time Yuuri had been sick, Victor had been there, rubbing his tummy and kissing his sweat-slicked hair and ignoring all of Yuuri’s _please you’ll get sick_ _too_ s(he hadn’t, and maybe there was a metaphor in that somewhere).   

Underneath his thick, bouldering coat was Victor’s navy blue jumper. He tugged the sleeves down to make mittens. If he shut his eyes, he could make believe that Victor was holding his hands.   

Across the other side of the city, Yurio (who had a highly enviable ability to sleep through _anything_ ) would wake up to find a text splayed across the screen of his cell phone. _Look after him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this is a pretty short'n'crappy chapter, I'm only going to leave one note (if you want to know anything more about my thoughts behind this chapter, feel free to ask) - 
> 
> When I was planning out this fic, I got severely snagged on this chapter. Originally, Yuuri was going to go home with Victor but then I thought; no. If he goes home with Victor then nothing's changed, nothing has been learnt. So here it is. My attempt at character development (which is something I totally suck at, so apologies). 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, an extra-special thank you for the people who have commented on this fic (seriously, I absolutely adore reading what people think/their interpretations, it sincerely makes my day!), and I hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> Next chapter: four times Victor missed Yuuri, and one time he actually did something about it. Or, Yurio tries to adult, Phichit is Done™, Makkachin is a sweetheart, and Yakov learns to accept that he might as well be talking to a brick wall.


	10. In Which Victor Pays for His Sins

 

 

Victor couldn’t remember the journey home. All he knew was that his face felt tight with the itchy salt of tears, and that he was acutely aware that he was wearing a pair of Yurio’s pyjamas (several sizes too small and in a stark tiger print pattern). His bare feet ached. He stopped in the foyer of the apartment block and looked down to see that his toes were lathered in the red mucus of blood. He’d walked all of the way there. A taxi had stopped in front of him, outside of the airport, but he didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve anything. Why not? He wasn’t exactly sure why. Just that it ached so badly that he couldn’t even feel it anymore. 

The knight had made it to the castle only to find that his princess (or, rather, prince, Victor supposed) preferred the dragon and had flown away on it. _It’s not supposed to happen like this._  

All Victor had ever really wanted was his Happily Ever After. Someone to look at him like _holy shit_. Someone who he could hold and think _home_. He wanted to have gold around his neck, even when he didn’t. He wanted someone to kiss and cuddle and fuck and take cute Instagram photos of. Someone who was _his_.

 _No_ , Victor thought, _Yuuri was more than that_. _He was everything._ When Victor was around Yuuri it was as if all of his cells turned to stardust and he wanted to pull his heart straight out of his chest and say _look what you’ve done to me I love it._ When he was with Yuuri it was like the world paused to sigh one of those heavy-light sighs, like the slither of the waves against warm sand. In that metaphor, Victor thought, he was the sand (solid, strong, open) and Yuuri was the waves (beautiful, poetic, always pulling back but not before leaving a profound mark). But now his waves were gone, and the tropical paradise had turned into an acrid, desolate desert. It burnt. He found himself _not caring_ that Yuuri had lied ( _did it even count as lying?_ ) – he just wanted Yuuri back. His solar system needed its star, and he wasn’t sure when that star had become Yuuri just that, _oh my God,_ it had. 

He sleepwalked down the hallway that led to his apartment ( _mine, not ours, not anymore_ ). 

And there, slouched in skinny jeans and a  _Team Russia_ zip-up hoodie, was Yuri Plisetsky. Because he was just Yuri now; the one and the only. The blue of the teenager’s jacket was too bright, the white too pure. It made Victor wince. 

“Yuri? What are you doing here?” His voice was a parched scrape, rocky, barren. 

“ _Vitya._ ” For a split second Victor was sure that he saw Yuri’s eyes stretch, the downturn of his mouth tear open as though the seams were splitting ever so slightly. But Victor couldn’t be certain because his head felt too heavy and he couldn’t be bothered to hold it up. His eyes traced the soup of swirls that gilded the carpet. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.” 

Without waiting for a response, Yuri reached into the faux potted plant and plucked up the spare key. He let them in. He didn’t need to be told what had happened – after getting Yuuri’s text he’d called Phichit – but even if he hadn’t known he wouldn’t have cared. Yuri didn’t often read too far into his own feelings, but when he did he found that Victor was far more than just his friend. He was _family_. Yuri didn’t need to know what the cause of Victor’s pain was, just that the pain was there and that something needed to be done to stop it before his friend – no, his _brother_ – bled out. Yuri was nothing if not loyal, even if he sometimes chose to show it in the strangest of ways. 

The apartment could have doubled for the set of one of those first-person, this-is-real-but-it-really-isn’t horror movies. The edges were too sharp. The walls and window frames were bones. It was too quiet, the silence a raking sort of scream that made Victor’s stomach swell. _This is real_. 

“Where’s Makka?” Victor’s voice was a fracture. It felt a sin to spill sound into such a void, arctic place. Like laughing at a funeral. Like having a screaming mental breakdown in tiger-print pyjamas at an international airport. 

“At Phichit’s.” 

Yuri’s eyes stayed stuck on Victor as the older man nodded, just the once. It was a viscous thing, like a Salvador Dali painting. Yuri had never liked those pictures; as a child, he’d had a recurring nightmare about melting clocks chasing him, weighing him down, morphing him into an old man. He watched as Victor drifted through to the bedroom and the walls of his insides weakened. Victor wasn’t supposed to look like that. Not ever. As a child, Yuri had once described Victor’s hair as a stream of silver; now it looked like a handful of dust. Eyes that Yuri had once thought of as sky blue were now dull slices of ice about to dissolve and melt away. The man that Yuri had considered, subliminally or otherwise, as indestructible was _breaking_. And he just didn’t know what to do. Not for the first time, Yuri wished he had more than just fifteen years of (somewhat limited in terms of love) life experience under his belt. 

Time stretched out into an emaciated yawn. Checking his watch, Yuri decided that he’d left it long enough and that checking on Victor would probably be wise. Not that he was worried. Of course not. Even if Yuri Fucking Plisetsky _did_ get worried, he would never get worried about The Victor Nikiforov. 

His footsteps on the carpet felt far too loud in that mausoleum of a place. Yuri didn’t look any paler than was normal – which was pretty much impossible considering that he was a shade of bleached porcelain that was as close to ice white as was humanly possible – but he _felt_ it. He’d carved out time for breakfast that morning despite the world apparently ending in the early hours, but something in him felt fundamentally empty. Even if he wasn’t good at showing it, even if he didn’t even like admitting it to himself, Yuuri had been his _friend_. The thought was alien to Yuri, but the second it formed he knew it was true. He _cared_ about the Japanese man, and it wasn’t just because he was inextricably linked to Victor. Yuuri was kind. He was decent. And he sure as shit was the best thing to ever happen to Victor. Yuri had never realised how fake Victor’s smiles could be until he’d seen his friend smile at Yuuri; it had resembled stargazing. It had been sickening, but in an I’ve-eaten-too-much-ice-cream sort of way. A good way. 

The trek to the bedroom took a small forever, but at the same time it didn’t take long enough. Because Yuri had never wanted to see Victor look like that. 

There Victor was, still in those utterly ridiculous tiger-print pyjamas, collapsed on the floor like his body had just _stopped_ there, sobbing into his hands. The sounds were bottomless wells, but if you fell into them there would be no water to break your fall. Yuri gulped. Victor was almost dry-heaving and _he’s going to be sick_ hit Yuri, but he couldn’t push himself past the doorway. He didn’t belong in this situation. No amount of snark or wit or sharpness could fix this. As proud as he was, Yuri knew when to admit that he was out of his depth. 

But then, _fuck_ _,_ Victor looked up at him from where he was slumped on the floor. In that moment, Yuri was a grown up and if he couldn’t take it then _tough shit_ , because Victor needed him. Something cold whispered up his throat as Victor held his arms limply out to him. 

And so Yurio spent the rest of his day (and most of the night) being clung onto by a man wearing nothing but a set of too-small tiger-stripe pyjamas. Nothing was said. Nothing could be said. Nothing other than the wheezed whimper of _Luchik_. 

 

* * *

 

Victor hadn’t been to the rink for three days. He had been planning to make it a forth, but Yuri had come knocking and told him to _grow the fuck up_ and that _moping isn’t going to fix anything_. He wasn’t wholly sure that going skating would fix anything either, but he’d been given a direction to go in so it seemed a good start. 

At least the ice was still the same. On the ice he was still a god, could control everything, could turn everything into art. Beautiful things can hurt; it’s just a case of deciding what’s more important – the hurt or the beauty? Victor would always choose the beauty. He did quad after quad, ignoring Yakov’s calls of _slow down Vitya_ and then his yells of _stop it idiot boy or so help me God._ As he’d landed, Victor had thought _so help me God what?_

He pushed himself into another jump and then another, breaking through barriers of pain and exhaustion that he’d never even seen before, not even on the distant horizon. In the back of his mind, it registered that he _wanted_ to hurt. It was the closest thing to love he could think of. No, it wasn’t even that. He just wanted to _feel_. 

Phichit, as usual, arrived late, clattering onto the ice in a blur of brightness. He grinned and waved at Yuri (who just glared, but a little more softly than was usual), and then at Mila (who took a break from teasing Yuri to return the greeting with gusto). He was the one person, Victor thought, who wouldn’t get his head chewed off by Yakov for being nearly an hour late to practice. He had a face that didn’t invite anger. 

Another quad. He made the rotations, but not the landing. The ice bit him as his side slammed into it. _That’ll bruise. Good._ He wanted to burn like how Yuuri had made him burn. 

For a moment he just laid there, letting the ice sink its teeth into his skin, eyes shut. Sweat bled down his face, matted his hair, made his tracksuit bottoms stick uncomfortably to his skin. He resembled someone sprawled on their deathbed, demanding that someone note down his Famous Last Words. 

Victor did not want to get up. All he wanted to do was cry. _Maybe_ , he thought, _if I cry enough then my tears will freeze and I’ll become one with the ice_ , which was melodramatic, even for Victor. But he did not cry. He’d forgotten to drink anything that day and, having cried himself to sleep the night before (and the night before that), was extraordinarily dehydrated. 

Thus unable to throw a tantrum becoming of a multi-gold-medalist, Victor heaved himself to his feet. Things that had never made noises before did, indeed, make noises. Yawning creaks. _I’m getting old_. _Maybe it’s time to throw in the towel._  

And there Phichit was, skidding to a halt in front of him. Victor squinted and was sure he could see the deep drag of sleeplessness under his rinkmate’s eyes. It didn’t suit Phichit. 

“So you’re done trying to quad yourself into oblivion?” One hand planted firmly on his hip, Phichit looked every part the exasperated mother. It should have been comical, but Victor found himself dropping his gaze down to the ice. He hadn’t been painting pictures on the ice today; no, he’d been _cutting_ into it. He forced himself to nod. “Good. Have you spoken to Yuuri?” 

 _Yuuri_. The lightning bolt forced Victor to meet Phichit’s eyes. He could feel something pulling sharply at the corners of his mouth. 

“Is he back? I _knew_ he would come back.” Because of course he would. “Is he at yours? Phichit, is Yuuri at your place?” 

“No. Of course he isn’t, Victor.” A storm cloud had settled over Phichit’s face. All traces of sympathy – worry? – had evaporated. “He’s not come back. Truth be told, I don’t think he _will_. And you’ve got no one but yourself to blame. Have you even called him?” 

The idea hadn’t crossed Victor’s mind. He’d been trawling through Yuuri’s Instagram (which had been created the evening he’d met Victor, at that bar in a hotel in Chicago, in a drunken haze just so he could post a blurry photo of himself, half undressed, with Victor’s arms around him, at the skater’s insistence just because Victor liked making people talk), looking back at old pictures, which fell into two categories; pictures of Victor, usually taken at the subject’s demand, and pictures of intricate flower arrangements. Victor had never paid much attention to the latter before, but after staying up obscenely late reading Wikipedia articles about what different flowers could mean, could appreciate them as a kind of poetry. And then Victor had burst into tears because he’d never paid much attention to that aspect of Yuuri before; it had felt like grief, like losing Yuuri all over again. 

But back to the point. No. He had not called Yuuri. Why not? Because Yuuri hadn’t called him. Yuuri didn’t want to hear from him. And Victor was not about to put himself through the pure, unbridled agony of Yuuri telling him _goodbye_ all over again. 

“You haven’t even _called_ him?” 

“No. I haven’t.” Victor paused, and then turned his face up to Phichit’s. Somehow, he’d managed to produce enough moisture to allow a few tears to slip out. To Phichit, they read like an SOS. “Have you? Has he called you? Is he okay? Is my Yuuri okay?” 

“Victor.” The word was like blood in water – seeping, clouding, silently voluminous. “He’s not _yours._ ” Phichit turned to skate away but then dug his toe pick in the ice, stopping just long enough to throw a gaze back over his shoulder at Victor. “He’s okay. He’s _not_ , he really, _really_ isn’t. But he is. He will be. No thanks to _you_.” 

“I didn’t see you chasing him to the airport.”

“ _Exactly._ ” 

Victor set off to do another set of quads. He was not old. Not yet. He was enough. He _was_. He was The Victor Nikiforov, for fuck's sake.

 

* * *

 

“Makka.” 

Nothing. 

“Makkachin.” Victor took A Tone, but still his beloved poodle wouldn’t deign to look at him. “Baby girl.” He reached out to rub between her ears, but Makkachin ducked out of the way. It hurt Victor more than it probably should have done. “ _Please_.” On the _ease_ , his voice broke.

It had been a week since Yuuri had left, and a grand total of six hours since Victor had last cried about it (he’d pressed _play_ on the DVD player to find it still had _My Neighbour Totoro_ in). He hadn’t changed his bedding. It still smelt of Yuuri. The mattress was still vaguely dented, forming a soft dip that suggested _Yuuri_. Since Yuuri had left, Victor had managed to smash a grand total of five plates, three mugs and nine bowls, and he had burst into tears every time; the washing up had always been Yuuri’s domain. But today, he had told himself, was not a day for crying. Apart from now it was. All because his dog wouldn’t look at him – she hadn’t done since that last argument with Yuuri. Yurio had made a jutting remark about Makkachin being the resentful teenager at the centre of a divorce. 

“I miss him too, Makka.” The words streamed out and coiled around him, squeezed him tight, choked him. He hadn’t admitted it out loud, no matter how much he knew it to be true. Hell, _I miss him_ was putting it lightly. Victor felt like light without shade. A universe without stars. He was there. He was fine. But he wasn’t happy. He wasn’t _alive_. Everything felt totally void of point. He frequently found that he had to remind himself to breathe. “I know, okay? I know it hurts. _Fuck_ , it hurts, and I can’t make it stop. I can’t fix it. I wish I could, baby girl, but I _can’t_. I’m not some kind of god. I wish I was, but I’m just _not_.” 

Apparently unmoved, Makkachin plodded off. Victor hid his face in his hands, pressing his fingers in just tight enough so that he could feel the cool kiss of his ring against his cheek. 

A few minutes later, Makkachin was pressing the damp smoosh of her nose against Victor’s hand. He straightened immediately and frowned his confusion at seeing Makkachin carrying something in her mouth – loosely, no teeth involved. As soon as he realised what it was, he snatched it away from her and held it to his chest, over his heart, like a shield. 

It was a postcard depicting the Romantic rise and fall of the Chicago skyline. Everything about it was so _blue_ , but over the past year or so, the picture had faded to a fuzzy sort of grey. He flipped it over and reread the words that he’d soaked in, saturated himself in, at least a million times. He had, when Yuuri was still living with him, read it every night, like a prayer. In looping, slanted Russian – the words running into each other, tipsy – was the date, followed by _I met the Love of My Life tonight. He’s called Yuuri Katsuki and I’m going to marry that boy._

His fingers pinched at the edges and his hands started to curve away from each other. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t rip it up, tear into confetti like he told himself he wanted to. Instead, he found himself crying. _Again._ At least this time Makkachin was there, pressing her face against his knee. _You are not alone_.

 

* * *

 

It was thirteen days after the Pulkovo Airport Incident when Victor – who had made it a straight twenty-eight hours without crying – barged into Yurio’s bedroom with a stack of DVDs under one arm and a rolled-up sleeping bag under the other. Yurio made a mental note to tell his grandpa not to let tall, silver-haired men through the front door past ten o’clock at night the day before travelling to a competition. But Victor had looked dangerously close to breaking his twenty-eight-hour dry-streak, so Yuri had decided to let it slide. Just this once. He didn’t think he’d be able to live with the guilt if he sent Victor home only to wake up to the headlines saying _The Victor Nikiforov Takes Toaster in Bath After Seeking Comfort from Teammate Plisetsky._ It would be bad press. 

So there they were, sat on Yuri’s bed, leant lazily against the headboard, each gripping tightly to a Playstation controller (Yuri had refused to watch any of Victor’s DVDs, which turned out to all be either cheesy romcoms or old Disney fairytale cartoons). Yuri couldn’t be bothered with playing properly, so Victor kept winning (because there was no way that Yuri Fucking Plisetsky was  _letting_ him win). 

Yurio couldn’t help it. He was fifteen years old, and boys that age are of a notoriously curious nature. Besides, it kept catching the light and winking at him, enticing him. 

“Vitya?” 

“Hm?” 

“Why are you still wearing that ring?” The words tiptoed out of Yuri’s mouth, soft as a ballerina’s footstep. 

Victor dropped his controller. The ring tied itself to his gaze and weighed him down. He found himself smiling at it, in the way Yuri often found his grandpa smiling at sepia photographs of his grandmother. _This is what love looks like._  

“Because Yuuri’s still wearing his,” Victor said, like it was the most obvious reason in the world. Victor himself hadn’t realised this until he said it, but in that moment he knew it to be true. “I can’t give up on him if he hasn’t given up on me.” 

“How do you know he’s wearing it? He’s deleted his Instagram.” Yurio frowned his intense confusion. 

“I just _know_ , Yurio.” Victor looked up from his ring to meet the younger boy’s gaze. The fragments where his heart had cracked in two were still visible, Yuri thought, but they had sutured themselves shut. He could remember Yuuri telling him, once, about a Japanese tradition of fixing broken pottery with molten gold. That’s what the cool glass of Victor’s eyes looked like. Broken, but fixed. Changed, but still beautiful. Newly beautiful. Reborn. There was a skating routine in that somewhere. “You’ll understand when you fall in love.” 

Yurio blew his fringe out of his face; his hair really was getting long. Victor liked to think that Yurio was modelling his look after Victor’s own teenage years. 

“I don’t think I’ll _ever_ understand the shit that you get yourself into, old man.”

  

* * *

 

“Yakov! Yakov.” 

“ _Victor_? It’s _three in the morning_. You better be _dying_.” A beat of silence. “Please tell me you’re not dying.” 

“Nope. I’m on my way to Pulkovo Airport.” 

“Victor, I’m going to _kill_ you.” 

An impish giggle triple-axeled down the phone line. Despite himself, Yakov found himself thinking _thank God, Victor’s back_. 

“I thought I should let you know. I’m flying to Japan.” 

“Of course you bloody are.” There was a sandpaper of sound as Yakov rubbed the sleep from his eyes. In all honesty, he’d seen this coming. In fact, he was surprised – and mildly disappointed – that it had taken Victor this long. “I don’t suppose me telling you that we’re meant to be leaving for Ostrava in the morning – later _this_ morning – will change anything?” 

“Nope.” 

“Victor. Listen to me. You’re getting old, okay? I know you know it. And I can see it. You’re getting _tired_.” Yakov sighed and it was a stroll of a sound. “This could be your last European Figure Skating Championships.” 

“Ah, darling Yakov, when have I _ever_ listened to you?” Sat in the back of a taxi, hurtling along the roads of St Petersburg to get Victor to a plane leaving in under an hour that he’d bought a ticket for twenty minutes ago, Victor ran his thumb over his ring. “Besides. I have a much more important gold to bring home.” 

Static crackled out between them and it was sort of like a long, winding journey. 

“Vitya, you bring that boy home or so help me God.” 

Silently, Victor thought _so help me God what?_  

“Don’t worry, Yakov. I’ve never let you down before.” 

Silently, Yakov thought _there’s a first time for everything._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Things to be said about this chapter:**  
>   
> 
> 1\. This is mostly about Victor developing (when I started writing this fic, it was with three main goals in mind; to improve how I write character development, improve how I write movement/action, and to improve how I write dialogue because I suck _immensely_ at all three). He starts off sulking, almost tantruming, and realising what his life is like without Yuuri in it. Then he goes to frustration, mostly with himself, and I would like to think that Phichit's talk has an impact on him (especially the part about not chasing Yuuri to the airport - Victor needs to respect what Yuuri wants). Then there's the Makkachin breakdown, where he realises that he isn't the centre of the universe. Then there's the holy-shit-I-really-love-him bit, and all is not lost if only we put work in. I'm not sure if I really pulled that off, but my aim was 'Victor learns his lesson (sort of) and has a few moments of clarity'. I also tried to develop Yurio's character here. He's still snappy and snarky but, damn it, he'd do anything for Victor. I interpret Yurio as being fiercely prickly (partly because it's part of his personality, and also partly because I think it's some sort of defence/coping mechanism?) but also fiercely passionate, and (secretly) fiercely protective/loving over the small handful of people who have broken through his prickly barrier. 
> 
> 2\. Why has Yurio suddenly become Yuri? Victor calling Yurio Yuri is like him trying to come to terms with Yuuri going. Why should he be called Yurio anymore when there's nobody to differentiate him from? And then, later on in the chapter, when Victor starts to think that things might be fixable, he becomes Yurio again.
> 
> 3\. How does Yurio know that Yuuri has deleted his Instagram? Because he's been checking it. Religiously. Because, deep down, he _cares_.
> 
> 4\. The European Figure Skating Championships. So I've decided to bring a tiny bit of the real world in. If chapter one takes place just after Christmas, I'm going to say that this point is sort of mid-January - just in time for the European Figure Skating Championships which, this year, are taking part in Ostrava, Czech Republic. Seeing as countries, depending on their ranking the previous year, can compete up to three skaters, both Victor and Yurio would be going (and so would Georgi if I'd written him, as this year Russia have qualified for three entries in all four categories - Men, Ladies, Pairs, and Ice Dancing - so just assume that he's there, somewhere, being emo in the background), as well as Mila.  
>  
> 
> Those mini playlists I've been doing? Here's one for Yurio:  
> \- Disposable Teens by Marilyn Manson  
> \- Teenagers by My Chemical Romance  
> \- Now by Paramore  
> \- Youngblood by Green Day  
> \- Never Miss a Beat by Kaiser Chiefs 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
> Next chapter will feature: Victor catching some hands, Mama Katsuki imparting some motherly wisdom, and an _extremely_ intoxicated Yuuri.


	11. Yuuri on Ice

 

 

The train station was too clean and too quiet, Victor thought. There were a few people dotted around – a man in a thick black overcoat sat on a bench reading a newspaper, a cluster of teenage girls looking very much as though they were up to no good, a couple drifting through with a pram – but none of them seemed to make any noise. It was a wholly disconcerting experience for Victor, who liked things loud and alive and _right now_. But this was Hasetsu, not St Petersburg. There was no rush. Everything happened gradually and exactly when it meant to. Stepping out of the station, Victor could hear the _caaawwwing_ lullaby of the seagulls washing in from the beach, the sound more of an impression than an actual imprint. The sky was a faraway blue, washed over with shades of bruise-purple and sticky-orange; the curtain of night was soon to fall but, Victor knew, the sky in Hasetsu was never truly _black_. The breeze fluttered its hand through Victor’s hair. 

It had been four or so months since Victor’s last (and first) trip to Japan, and everything about Hasetsu still felt as the same. The pavements breathed history and the trees whispered soft secrets. In the distance, Victor could see the castle-that-wasn’t-a-castle, looming like a familiar but disapproving face. It reminded him, just a little bit, of Yakov. 

Victor set off in the direction of Yu-topia Katsuki, the hot springs resort that constituted Yuuri’s home. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure that he was heading the right way, but something in him, a kind of inner compass, murmured that _yes, Yuuri is here, you’re getting closer._ A bus groaned past and the lights caught Victor’s ring, making it wink. Confirmation. 

The bridge that sprawled from the town centre to the clump of land that formed Yuuri’s universe was as long as the horizon was wide. It stretched and pulled and Victor, although desperate to get to Yuuri, found himself needing to stop. He leant against the barrier of the bridge and cast his eyes out into the water. _Yuuri is here_ , he thought, _I’m breathing the same air as he is, I’m under the same sky._ Something warm rushed through Victor, thawing out his veins. He was here two win Yuuri back – but no. No, he wasn’t. Because Yuuri was not a prize to be won, he realised as he gazed down into the soft swell of water, he was not a possession. Yuuri _would_ be Victor’s, but only if he wanted to be. 

Aeroplanes are a strange sort of place. An inbetween. A nowhere. And, for some reason, that makes them an excellent place to reflect – at least, that was very much the case for Victor. In those nineteen hours that he’d been airborne, he’d had a lot of thinking to do. Not about Yuuri, but about _himself_. It was his fault Yuuri had gone – Phichit had told him as such on a thrice-daily basis and he was only just allowing himself to believe it – and Victor knew why; he had stopped being the Japanese man’s home. This implied all sorts of things. _He doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t feel safe around me. He doesn’t think I care_. As much as Victor had wanted to argue those points, he found that he very much couldn’t. He honestly hadn’t realised that he’d been doing it, but Victor had _made_ Yuuri think those poisonous, untrue things. All because he didn’t _understand_. He still didn’t understand it all, not completely, not totally, but that was going to change. He’d flown halfway around the world for Yuuri. More than that, he’d chased after Yuuri instead of going to a _competition_. Because what did fame and glory and gold matter when he didn’t have a home to go back to? What did the _ice_ matter when Yuuri wasn’t there to make him warm? It had hit him with the starkness of a full-stop, but Victor knew precisely what had happened; Yuuri had become his everything and without his fiancé (because they hadn’t _officially_ broken up, Victor told himself) he had _nothing_. The sum of his inflight monologue had been _it doesn’t matter if Yuuri is mine, all I want is to be his._  

_All I want is to be his_. Victor had never felt like that before, and he allowed himself to admit that it was scary. _Wonderfully_ scary. Like some kind of metaphysical rollercoaster. He’d never found himself not enough for himself before, and it opened up all kinds of new possibilities.

Heaving out a sigh, Victor walked onwards. The first star made a pinprick in the darkening silk of the sky (in St Petersburg, the sky was crushed velvet). Halfway across the bridge stood a fisherman. They shared a smile. 

Victor found himself sprinting through the streets, something inside him burning and singing and reaching, until he got to the grand gates of Yu-topia Katsuki. He couldn’t imagine growing up in a place such as this – so natural, earthy, _warm_ – but it made sense that Yuuri had. As he passed under the entrance arch he found himself thanking whichever great force of life was responsible for having blessed Yuuri with a home such as this, with a family full of love. 

His eyes got caught on the sharp-soft figure of Mari, slouched against an outside wall with a cigarette drooping out of her lips. Of all of the people he could have stumbled across, Victor was glad that it was Mari; she had been there on that fateful trip to America that had sent Yuuri spiralling into his arms, and thus she would understand. Of course she would. 

“Mari!” Victor’s voice flew through the air like birdsong. He raised a hand in greeting, unable to fight off a smile. It felt like coming home. “ _Kon’nichiwa!”_  

Mari looked up – her eyes were the same brown as Yuuri’s and fireworks shot through Victor’s veins. Her jaw dropped, her cigarette tumbling gracefully to the ground like a shooting star. But then she swallowed, she nodded, she adjusted her thick purple headband to better keep her hair out of her face. In that moment, Victor could have bounded straight up and kissed her just for being related to The Love of His Life.

“ _Victor Nikiforov_.” Her voice was an exhale that curved upwards. She smiled, her lips cutting in at the corners. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”

A wiser man than Victor would perhaps have foreseen this, but he did not. He just beamed brightly at Yuuri’s sister because, of course, everything was going _perfectly._ It didn’t cross his mind that the clipped tone of Mari’s voice might have been white-hot fury, nor that the tight curling of her left hand might have been a bad thing. 

It only _just_ crossed his mind that _shit she’s punching me_ as Mari’s fist made contact with Victor’s jaw with a _clicking_ sound that even Victor had to admit was kind of satisfying. He hit the floor with a _thud_ , and then everything blurred into a pleasant sort of blackness, that stupid smile of his still plastered to his lips. 

Mari stood over him for just a _moment_ before deigning to haul the Champion Figure Skater (see: Champion Douche Bag) to his feet. He was heavy, but she was strong.

 

* * *

 

When Victor’s eyes peeled open, it was to the meaty, wholesome smell of cooking, and to the sound of rushed footsteps of Japanese. The first voice he could hear was that of Yuuri’s mother, Hiroko, whom he held a great affection for – the woman reminded him of a teddy bear, and there was so much of her gentle softness in Yuuri that Victor couldn’t help but love her. The second voice belonged to Mari, and it was coming in spitfires. 

He tried to sit himself up, but he wasn’t in a bed and there was no headboard to help him. Victor pressed his hands to the floor and felt the soft, grooved ripples beneath him. _Tatami_ , he remembered it being called, and thought that it might make a good addition to his apartment.

“Oh! Victor!” Suddenly Hiroko was at his side, arms on his shoulders, easing him into a sitting position. She offered him a glass of water and he gulped it down. Opening his mouth hurt, stung, and then he remembered; _Mari punched me._ “There we are.” She put the glass down, her face glowing with that perpetual hug of a smile. “Now. Mari has something she would like to say to you.” After a short stretch of crushingly awkward silence, Hiroko cleared her throat. “ _Mari_.” 

“I’m sorry,” Mari drawled, leaning in the doorway, eyes strolling to everything other than Victor. “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time coming here-” 

“ _Mari!”_

“-but there’s no _way_ I’m letting you see Yuuri.” 

Victor, who had been somewhat amused by the back-and-forth, plummeted into a confused frown. Was he translating the English wrong? No, he understood what Mari had said. Maybe she’d gotten her words mixed up? No, she had sounded as sure as granite. He found his knees pulling up into his chest like the drawbridge of a castle. For a moment it struck Victor that maybe he should just _give up_ – love wasn’t meant to be this hard. That thought evaporated almost immediately, however. Maybe love _wasn’t_ meant to be this difficult, but what he and Yuuri had was so much _more_ than love. Or it could be. And it was worth fighting for (even if the person he was apparently fighting had, quite possibly, the best left hook in the northern hemisphere). 

“I _will_ be seeing Yuuri.” Victor stuck his eyes on Mari like arrows. She was testing him, and he was determined to ace it. “If,” he added, “he wants me to.” Victor found himself nodding. _Yuuri needs someone who will listen to him._ “It’s not up to you if he sees me. It’s not up to me either. It. It’s _his_ choice.” 

“Yeah, well, he’s out right now.” Mari reached into her pocket, plucked out a pack of cigarettes. “And he doesn’t know what’s good for him.” She looked Victor up and down as she lit up. “Clearly.” 

“ _Mari,”_ Hiroko hissed. She didn’t lose her smile, though her eyes had hardened into a warning that Victor couldn’t read. “I don’t care what he’s done, Victor’s a guest.” 

“How can’t you care?” Mari choked on her own smoke. Her eyes widened in indignation, and Victor thought if they got any bigger there would be no room for the rest of her face. “He _broke_ Yuuri’s heart.” 

“I know.” The soft, willowy wisp of Hiroko’s admission was enough to make Victor’s cheeks burn. He could only remember a handful of times that he’d ever felt as ashamed as he did then, and they were almost all in relation to Yuuri. “I know he did.” She squeezed Victor’s hand and it felt like a weight was being blown off of his chest by a soft breeze. “But that’s why he’s here.” 

Mari growled something in Japanese that Victor didn’t understand, and then stormed through the room. Every movement was a cut, bloody and open but expertly executed. She slid the door shut behind her, and the force of it was enough to make the walls shake. For her rage, Victor admired her; she was someone who could _care_. Viscerally. Again, he thanked whoever it was that needed thanking for giving Yuuri the family that he had. 

Victor turned to Hiroko, who was giving him a look that made his bone marrow hurt in a whirring, spinning rawness. She was still smiling, but Hiroko was a woman of many smiles and this one said, to those who cared to read it, _I’m so disappointed in you_. Victor found himself never wanting to disappoint Hiroko. 

“ _Gomen’nasai_.” Japanese. _I’m sorry_. Victor sighed the words out, his eyes unable to meet Hiroko’s. “I am. You know that, don’t you?” 

“I do. But what do _I_ matter? It’s Yuuri you should be apologising to.” 

“He knows I’m sorry.” 

“Does he?” She tilted her head. _Yuuri does that to, when he’s confused._ “Have you _told_ him?” 

A star shot across the desolate night sky of Victor’s mind. Something in his eyes flashed – a fissure of gold slipping into place, gluing the glass back together. He turned to Hiroko and kissed her cheek, causing a blush – _Yuuri would have blushed too_ – to chase up her face. 

“Where is he? I. I need to tell him something.” Victor was smiling, smiling in the way that an adventurer might smile up at a mountain. Determination. “I need to tell him I’m sorry. That I love him, that I _need_ him. I need to talk to him and I need to listen to him.” 

Hiroko got to her feet, each movement an origami fold, and Victor frowned wonderingly up at her. Where was she going? What had he done wrong? Was he going to get punched again? He didn’t think his heart would ever recover from being punched by _Hiroko_ , even if Victor did secretly think he might deserve it. 

He watched as she shuffled off through the doorway. He kept his eyes on it, waiting. He traced his fingertip around the soft warmth of his gold ring. _Yuuri is still wearing his. I just know it._  

When Hiroko returned, Victor couldn’t immediately tell it was her – the vast majority of her upper body was hidden by a towering pile of cardboard boxes. A spike of worry rang in Victor’s head as she stumbled and he shot up. He took the top few boxes from her, and her smile read _you’re a sweetheart really._ She ducked her head towards the centre of the room and Victor acquiesced, gently placing them down with all the care of setting down a new born. 

“Do you know,” Hiroko asked, tracing a finger over some Japanese characters permanent-markered onto the top of one of the boxes, “what this means?” Victor squinted at it, out of politeness rather than thinking he stood any chance of deciphering what it meant, and shook his head. “ _Yuuri on Ice_.” 

For a moment, it didn’t quite click for Victor. And then, _oh_ , it did. It felt as though someone were trusting him with an ancient relic that could disintegrate if breathed on the wrong way. He had to tread carefully here, but tread he must. Yuuri’s mother was trusting him with something so holistically immense, and Victor was determined not to let her down. Not to let Yuuri down. Not again.  

Hiroko peeled open the first box and Victor found himself unable to resist curiosity. He peered over the blocky curve of her shoulder to see piles of carefully folded silk, some of it sheer, some of it studded with stars. There were also two pairs of skates; one similar to the pair that Victor had bought Yuuri but duller, bruised, worn. The other pair were heartbreakingly small, each boot about the size of a robin. Building blocks. 

“He started young?” 

“Oh, yes. At the Ice Castle.” Her smile read _we were all so happy_. “It’s just down the road from here. He used to cry when we told him it was time to go home. Ice skating was _everything_ to my Yuuri.” She made a wet noise, and Victor granted her the respect of looking away. Another box was opened, this time full of programmes and photo albums. She hauled one of the albums – dog-eared, yellowed – out and handed it to Victor. “Look. Go on, look.”

Cross-legged on the _tatami_ , Victor rested the album on his lap. His mouth dried out like a patch of sky thrown carelessly over a desert. His fingers shook as he opened it, the front cover so impossibly heavy. 

And there Yuuri was. Around six years old, Victor imagined, a little ball of puppy fat and big brown eyes. A fluid lump formed in Victor’s throat. He’d never seen Yuuri look as happy as he did in this photograph, stood proudly on the ice in a shiny-new pair of ice skates, and it felt like grief. _What would Yuuri be like if he’d stayed on the ice?_ Victor shook his head. If Yuuri had stayed on the ice, he would no longer be _Victor’s_ Yuuri. 

He turned the page. A young girl – it wasn’t Mari, Victor was sure, because Mari was spiky and this girl resembled a sort of human dandelion – beamed out at him. Her arm was thrown around Yuuri, who had lost two front teeth since the last photograph. 

“That’s Yuuko.” Hiroko put in, pointing at the girl. The name fit her, Victor thought. “She used to skate with Yuuri. She still works at the Ice Castle. A lovely girl. Married with children now.” She shook her head at the antics of time. “Let me see. Look,” Victor let her rifle swift-softly through the pages, “ _here_. Yuuri’s first competition.” 

Yuuri looked a little bit older in this picture, maybe nine or ten. His hair was slicked back, but he had his glasses on. He was wearing a costume that sort of looked like the night sky had vomited onto a tuxedo. When Victor zoomed out slightly, he could see that Yuuri was perched on a podium, a gold medal resting around his neck. There was a slight pink tinge to Yuuri’s neck, and his smile was somewhat bleached. _Even back then, he was shy._ Victor wanted to go back in time to that competition, just so he could stand in the audience and cheer Yuuri on. 

The next picture Hiroko pointed out to Victor was, actually, a picture of a picture. A picture in a newspaper, black and white, of Yuuri posed on the ice, his head thrown back with a kind of confidence that Victor hadn’t thought his fiancé capable of. His finger traced the headline. 

“What does this say?” 

“Ah.” Hiroko adjusted her glasses. “ _Hasetsu’s Golden Boy Katsuki Yuuri Heads to Junior Nationals._ It was the local paper. We were all very excited. There was a time when Yuuri couldn’t leave the house without people patting him on the back.” Although Victor thought that he might enjoy that kind of attention, he could imagine it making Yuuri’s skin crawl. He grimaced in sympathy with Past Yuuri. “Yes. He liked that about as much as you can imagine.” 

As Hiroko took the album back, one thought occurred to Victor; _I know him_. It was something he’d been doubting since the Pulkovo Airport Incident because, when it came down to it, there was _so much_ that he didn’t know. But this. This proved it. He knew Yuuri in all of the ways that mattered, even if he still had a lot to learn. He knew Yuuri enough to understand that everything would fall to ashes if their love burnt out. 

Victor was so busy revelling in this realisation that he hadn’t noticed Hiroko take a DVD out of one of the boxes and make her way over to the wall-mounted television. He was bought to attention by the sharp blare of a bow firing down the strings of a violin. 

“This, is the last time he performed,” Hiroko said, stood next to the television. Her smile read _I am still so proud of him._  

Yuuri – maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, Victor thought – was stood at the centre of a rink, stark and beautiful as a firework. His eyes smouldered, and Victor found that he would have been quite happy to burn with him. The routine passed in a blur for Victor, a brushstroke of confidence and intricacy and _holy shit that’s my Yuuri._ The spins were forces of nature. The jumps were flight. The step sequences were artwork that moved Victor to almost-tears. Even when Yuuri fluffed a quad and had to touch down, it looked beautiful – like a petal drifting from a flower.   

And then it ended. And then Victor saw that tears were running down Hiroko’s cheeks.

“He was _amazing,”_ she breathed. 

“He still is.” 

“Victor?” The curve of the question mark was audible. “Where are you staying?” 

“Oh, I.” Victor blushed – he’d just assumed that he would be staying with Yuuri. 

“I thought as much. You’re staying here, of course.”

 

* * *

 

Victor hadn’t wanted to eat dinner. The reason he gave to Hiroko was that he would eat later, when Yuuri got home, and they could bond over her heavenly _katsudon._ The actual reason was that he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to keep anything down; excitement at seeing Yuuri had fizzled to anticipation, which had in turn boiled down to _what if he doesn’t what to see me?_ Victor had never felt like this, and it was wholly disconcerting. 

He had, however, accepted an ice cold bottle of Asahi Beer from Toshiya, Yuuri’s dad, because to refuse alcohol would just be bad manners. 

So there he was, sat in the room that functioned as a sort of bar, sipping his beer through a straw and pretending to be interested in the football that was currently occupying the great silver stage of the television. A few elderly men were grumbling to each other in the corner over carafes of _sake,_ only cracking smiles when Hiroko bundled over to offer refills. 

“ _Hiroko!_ ” A voice, semi-slurred, cut through the calm bubble of warm noise. Hiroko caught Victor’s gaze and nodded. “ _Hiroko!_ _Watashida,_ Minako! Oh. _Yuuri._ ” There was the unmistakable _haaak-splash_ of someone being sick. Victor was already on his feet and sprinting out of the bar, in the direction of the voice – it was a woman’s, he was sure. Not Mari. Yuuko? “Yuuri! _Watashi no kutsu_.” Victor could just about translate – something about shoes? 

_Oh_ , Victor thought. He knew _exactly_ what about shoes, because there Yuuri was, spouting a rainbow of vomit onto the expensive-looking stilettos of the owner of the voice; a woman who, even a fair few shots down, flowed with an ethereal sort of grace. She looked fragile, like a high note, but she was the only thing stopping Yuuri from face-planting into the ground. 

Victor jogged over to them, stood in the doorway of the building. He could smell the alcohol on them from several feet away and had the abstract thought that lighting a match, even from this distance, would send the two of them up in flames. 

Blue eyes scampered along Yuuri’s body, and Victor felt _something_ swell in him like a cloud of smoke. Airy but choking. Bittersweet.  Yuuri’s hair was a birdnest and Victor itched to comb through it; no, to wash it first, pat it dry and to _then_ comb it, followed by running his fingers through it until Yuuri whispered into sleep. Every part of Victor sung out for every part of Yuuri. _Christ,_ Victor thought, _he’s gushing vomit and he still looks beautiful._  

Victor reached out to help this poor vomit-shoed woman with his fiancé, only to retract his hands when she turned her sharp, fierce face at him and hissed. _Hissed_. Victor didn’t think he’d ever been _hissed_ at before. 

And then, for the second time that day, Victor found himself being punched. Thankfully, however, the woman was too drunk to make a good hit, and the knuckles of her fist just grazed the side of Victor’s cheek. 

“ _Hey!_ ” Victor squeaked, feeling somewhat unjustly maligned. “You can’t just go around _punching_ people.” 

“But you’re not _people,”_ the woman spat, her English articulated and flawless. “You’re Victor Nikiforov, _kono yarou._ ” Victor knew that one – _you shit._  

“Victor?” It sounded more like a squeal of _Veeeectaaaw_ , and it was all of the warning the addressed got before finding himself with a bundle of drunk Japanese man clinging to his shirt. “Yay! Victor! Victor’s here!” Yuuri turned his head back over his shoulder, to his drinking partner. “I am going to have sex with him, Minako.” 

“Yuuri,” the woman drawled, “ _no_.” 

“Yuuri _yes_.” Yuuri nodded earnestly. He spun his head around back to Victor so quickly that the Russian was sure he heard something click. He touched his fingers around the other man's neck, checking for damage. 

“Woah.” Victor chuckled, fastening his arms securely around Yuuri as the intoxicated man stumbled. _He’s such an adorable drunk._ “Easy. I’ve got you.” 

The woman grumbled something that sounded like _I hope he’s sick on everything you love_ before disappearing out of the door, off into the night. Victor could feel the warm dig of Yuuri’s nose against his torso, and found that he didn’t care that, imminently, his shirt would be coated in the vomit that was smudged around Yuuri’s lips. He gave the younger man a tight squeeze. It was enough to just be holding him. 

For the longest time, Victor just _held_ Yuuri there. He felt the fibres of their bodies fissure and intertwine and, for the first time in weeks, Victor felt whole again. Everything was cast in gold, gilded at the edges. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Yuuri’s head. 

“Vitya! Vitya, is Makkachin here? I love her. She is my daughter.” Yuuri’s voice was muffled, stoppered in by Victor’s chest, but the younger man had anchored in and there was no way he was about to peel himself away. “Victor, please tell me you have not left our sweet, fluffy child at home alone.” 

“She’s with Phichit, _Luchik_.” He petted a hand through Yuuri’s hair, calming. “She misses you.” 

“I miss her too,” Yuuri mumbled and it was a horrible, wet thing. 

Before Victor could say all of the things he wanted to – he sensed that maybe this wasn’t the best time for a heart-to-heart anyway – Yuuri went boneless. It was only through sheer luck that Victor managed to grab a proper hold of him before the younger man crashed to the floor, sweeping Yuuri up into a sort of bridal hold. Safe. Secure. Just _there._ _I won’t drop you. The world could start tearing itself apart beneath our feet and I still wouldn’t drop you_. _Precious_. _Luchik. You know that, don’t you?_ Victor found himself think that maybe, just maybe, Yuuri didn't. 

Victor navigated his way to Yuuri’s bedroom and placed him gently down on his bed. Figuring that it was nothing he hadn’t seen before, and that it would be wise to get Yuuri out of his vomit-and-vodka-splattered clothes, Victor eased Yuuri into some pyjamas (he rifled through the wardrobe to find the softest possible pair). Victor’s soul sighed at noticing the archaeologically deep bags under Yuuri’s eyes. _I did this. I’ve done this to him. But I’ll fix it._ A ribbon of determination knotted itself through Victor’s circulatory system. 

Laying down next to his fiancé, Victor took one of Yuuri’s hands. His fingertips found gold. 

“You won’t leave?” Yuuri’s voice was slurred and low, his eyes still shut. 

Victor clasped his fingers strong-soft around Yuuri’s hand, and murmured, “never. Not until you ask me to.” 

For the first time since the Pulkovo Airport Incident, both Victor and Yuuri slept soundly. They had a lot of work to do, but they were both tired, _exhausted,_ and now that they were both finally _home_ , they deserved a rest.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Things to be said about this chapter:**
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> 1\. The first paragraph was my attempt at pathetic fallacy? So, like, the setting is meant to reflect the differences between Yuuri and Victor, in that Victor is sort of hectic and bright like St Petersburg, whereas Yuuri is more calm and quiet, like Hasetsu. I don't know, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
> 
> 2\. I know in the anime Mari is pretty laid back. But I think that she could perhaps be really protective over Yuuri, especially in this AU because she knows what he's been through and she knows what he used to be like (cast your mind back a few chapters to the nightmare/flashback Yuuri had - he used to be at least a little bit confident), and I imagine she could maybe see a bit of that old Yuuri come back when he was with Victor. So seeing her brother, who has already been through a fair bit and has anxiety anyway, hurt has her angry.
> 
> 3\. When Victor is waking up, I imagine Hiroko and Mari's conversation to be something along the lines of -  
> Hiroko: You really shouldn't have hit him.  
> Mari: He deserved it.  
> Hiroko: Be that as it may, violence is never the answer.  
> Mari: He broke Yuuri's heart so I broke his face.
> 
> 4\. Why does Hiroko show Victor the skating stuff? Well, I think that Yuuri probably told her all about what had happened, so she knows that Victor is interested. Also, she thinks that he deserves to know - especially after he says that he's sorry, and realises that he's got to actually _talk_ to Yuuri. She can see that he's changing, and for that she rewards him with some of the tools that he needs to fix things. She is a good mama and she wants things to work out.
> 
> 5\. Why was Yuuri happy to see Victor? Because he was very, very drunk (like, ridiculously, dangerously drunk). He had drunk so much because he was depressed, and he was depressed because - despite it all - he missed Victor. He won't be quite so pleased to see Victor in the morning.
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> Thank you very much for reading, the biggest of hugs to those who have left comments (I honestly appreciate it so much), and I hope you enjoyed it! Only four more chapters to go :D
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> Next chapter will feature: *angels singing, trumpets blaring* COMMUNICATION ft. a box of old Victor Nikiforov posters
> 
> Also, if it's something that might interest you, you can follow my tumblr [here.](http://unicornsandbandsandstuff.tumblr.com/)


	12. Luchik and Vitya

 

 

Yuuri couldn’t get himself to stop staring. Nor could he extract himself from Victor’s boa-constrictor hold because to do so would be to wake the Russian up, and Yuuri was fairly certain that waking a sleeping angel was some kind of sin. So he would put up with the claustrophobia. 

The last thing he could remember was being out with Minako, his old ballet teacher, and bursting into tears over a bottle of vodka that had the Russian flag on it. After that everything was a blur. _I must have been really drunk if I can’t even remember Victor._ It crossed his mind that he had been reckless with himself, but instead of feeling bad about it he felt sort of good, like he’d given a big _fuck you_ to everything. Yuuri wasn’t totally sure how he felt about Victor being there. It ached, but aching could be a good thing. 

The past couple of weeks had been hell for Yuuri. No. Not hell. _Purgatory._ It had been like stumbling through a wasteland, watching things happen but not _feeling_ them, being on the outside, The Other. He’d been gone too long, and things hadn’t really slotted back into place as he’d hoped; Yuuri liked constants but Hasetsu had stopped being _constant_. But no, it wasn’t Hasetsu that had changed – it was Yuuri. When Takeshi cracked a joke, the sound Yuuri made wasn’t quite laughter. When Yuuko hugged him, he couldn’t hold on tight enough. When he played hide-and-seek with the triplets, he found them too quickly. When he got drunk with Minako – as with the previous night – he only wound up gushing bodily fluids everywhere. It felt good to be home, in that he _knew_ he was surrounded by love and safety, but other than that he couldn’t really feel anything. Hasetsu – warm, soft, pastel Hasetsu – had gone grey. It was as if Yuuri had left all of his colour in St Petersburg, pooled and pledged to Victor. He had given too much of himself away. 

Yuuri was knocked out of his thoughts by a pair of balmy, satin lips being pressed to his. Victor’s eyes had opened in whispers, so Yuuri could just make out a slight spill of blue. The kiss was a question, and Yuuri answered it by shifting away. 

“When did you get here?” Yuuri’s voice was thorns on a wrist; scratching, hurting, tangling. He sat up. Why had he pushed Victor away? Wasn’t this what he’d been hoping for every waking moment of the past fortnight? It was. And it also _wasn’t_. He wanted Victor back but he wanted him to taste different. 

“Yesterday.” Victor heaved himself to sit as well. He hovered a hand over Yuuri’s shoulder, but then dropped it back into his lap. This, he understood, had to be on Yuuri’s terms. “You were pretty drunk last night.”

“ _Oh_.” A blush took bites of Yuuri’s cheeks. In the cold light of day, he noticed how messy his bedroom was and he formed a new motto: _always make sure your room is tidy lest a Russian come knocking_. He glanced over his shoulder at Victor, the exclamation point of his nose bobbing as he looked the older man over. Victor, for all intents and purposes, looked totally _wrecked_. A pang of _I want to fold him back together_ reverberated through Yuuri’s bones. “Um. Did we…” He gestured with his hand between himself and Victor. 

“No. Of _course_ we didn’t.” The spot above the bridge of Victor’s nose became a pinprick as his forehead creased. “I was _looking after you_. You were _wasted_.” All of a sudden, Victor was on his feet, pacing angrily in front of Yuuri. Because he _was_ angry. _Furious._ “You were being sick, everywhere, you. You passed out. Your behaviour last night was reckless, Yuuri. It was _dangerous_. _Anything_ could have happened to you.” _I wasn’t there to protect you. I’m sorry._ And then he was on his knees in front of Yuuri, cupping the Japanese man’s cheeks with his hands, his fingers curving and bridging as they mapped out the skin. Yuuri felt _cold_ and Victor just wanted to make it stop. “ _Luchik_.” 

Yuuri shook his head. It _hurt_. Maybe that was oversimplifying things, but at the core of it all, _hurt_ was what Yuuri felt. Hurt that he’d left, that he’d ruined everything; hurt that it was _Victor_ who had pushed him to do it. But then, no, maybe that wasn’t completely fair. True, Victor had made Yuuri cry, had made him feel like his soul had turned into a black hole, but had Yuuri really been any better? 

His hands found Victor’s, and he tucked their fingers together, pressed to his cheeks. Victor squeezed, and a heartbeat of colour flickered back. 

“You’re still wearing your ring,” Yuuri mumbled. 

“So are you.” A jagged smile cut into Victor’s features. It wasn’t bright, it wasn’t blinding, but it was oh so _honest_. Victor leant forward, Yuuri nodded, and Victor pressed his lips to Yuuri’s cheek, just a rose-petal touch. Victor hungered for a proper kiss, for more than that, but Victor had ignored what Yuuri wanted, _needed_ for far too long. He saw that now. “I couldn’t give up on you. On _us_. I love you too much.” 

“I love you too, Vitya.” And then Yuuri was throwing his arms around Victor’s neck, hugging on tight. “I couldn’t ever stop. But love isn’t _enough_. And it’s so damn hard because love isn’t enough but, without you, _life_ isn’t enough.” Victor just held on tight, listening. “I love you but I don’t think things can go back to how they were.” 

Yuuri felt as if he’d lifted a monster truck. His words were water, slippery and overwhelming but true, important, _vital._ They pushed down on him and suddenly he was finding it hard to breath, his blood turning to smoke in his veins, the air in his lungs turning to fire. He wanted Victor back. He _needed_ him. Living without Victor had been like living in shadow, in the dark, like he’d never left that ice rink all of those years ago – but with Victor by his side, at their best, he was always walking in sunlight. When had that stopped? All Yuuri knew was that he ached to have that feeling back, and now he’d probably ruined any chance of that, even if what he’d said had been true. He scrabbled to tighten his hold on Victor. _If I don’t let go then he can’t leave._ He was drowning. 

“Yuuri. Hey, Yuuri, _Luchik_ , it’s okay.” Victor wasn’t precisely sure _why_ Yuuri was crying, just that he wanted to make it stop. He never wanted Yuuri to cry, ever again. In that moment, to Victor, nothing else mattered other than _Yuuri is crying_. “I don’t want things to go back to how they were either. I. I want them to be _better._ ” Victor eased himself back up onto the bed – keeping hold of one of Yuuri’s hands – and gently pulled Yuuri into his lap. He willed Yuuri to be able to feel his heartbeat, the way it formed the bassline to a song that Victor didn’t know but was meant for Yuuri. He threaded his arms around Yuuri’s waist – thinner, Victor noted, than it had been just two weeks previously – hooked his chin over Yuuri’s shoulder. _Close_. Victor didn’t know what he was going to say until he said it; “I’m sorry, Yuuri.” 

“W-what?” Why was Victor saying sorry when all of this was quite clearly Yuuri’s fault? Victor hadn’t been the one who’d run off halfway around the world. “Why are _you_ sorry, Vitya?” 

“Because.” Victor breathed through the tight wall of his teeth. This was _hard_. But Yuuri was worth it, in the same way that climbing a mountain is worth it for the view, for the feeling of euphoric clarity. “Because, I made everything about _me_. I. I didn’t _listen_. But I am. I am now. I will do. Because you are so fucking precious and my arms are empty without you in them and I just want to hold you and hold you and hold you, even when I’m not _actually_ holding you because that’s what love is. I _love_ you, Katsuki Yuuri. I love you and it hurts but it’s so amazing and you’re not second to _anything_. And I’m sorry that I’m such an idiot, I know I am, but at least, _please_ , let me be _your_ idiot.” 

“Of.” Yuuri fought hard to swallow down the diamonds forming in his throat. He nearly choked on them, but in a good way. “Of _course_ you’re mine.” It wasn’t something Yuuri had known he knew, but it was true in a bassline, fundamental way. He waited a moment, wondering if it would be okay to ask. “Am I yours? Even after everything I’ve done?” He turned his face to the side, just enough to press his nose to Victor’s cheek. _Warmth. Home_. “Vitya, can you forgive me?” 

Victor fitted his hands to Yuuri’s hips and turned him around, so that they were face-to-face. Given the extra height of being on the platform of Victor’s lap, Yuuri’s eyes could easily meet Victor’s without reaching. _Equals._ Before Victor could gush _of course I forgive you and you are so mine_ , Yuuri was pulling him down into a kiss with an urgent confidence that was delicious and Victor thought _oh_ _I’ve missed you_. 

The kiss was a collision, like a paintbrush on a canvas. Victor wasn’t sure if he’d ever been kissed this way before or if he ever would be again (he hoped not, because he hoped to never recreate a situation deserving of such a reunion) and he made sure to savour it. It wasn’t an Everything Is Okay kiss, because things don’t get fixed with words alone, but it was an Everything Will Be Okay kiss and it sparkled with promise. A star in the night. Victor matted his hands into Yuuri’s hair – _how has it grown so much?_ – and he shivered at the feeling, rather than the swallowed-up sound, of Yuuri mewing his name. Their bodies were building bonfires and Victor was ready to burn.

All it took was a gentle push, one palm on his chest, to get Victor on his back. As Yuuri leant over him, intent on giving the Russian a constellation of love bites, his eyes got snagged on the calendar hanging over the bed. He all but fell off of Victor, trying to look stern but unable to completely ignore the amusement of the older man letting out a sound like the air being let out of a tire. Only _Victor_ could make him feel like this; confident, powerful, desirable.

“ _Victor._ You’re supposed to be in the Czech Republic. You. It’s the _Europeans_. Why aren’t you there?” His voice cracked.

Victor sat up like a jolt of electricity had shot through him. He took Yuuri’s hands, threaded their fingers, looked down at their rings. His smile was a crescent moon on a summer night. 

“You’re more important.” Victor said it as though he hadn’t been surer of anything in his life, which was in fact the case. 

“I-I. I am?” Yuuri couldn’t wrap his head around the concept. The last time he’d felt important, he’d had skates on his feet and a medal around his neck. His importance, his _worth_ , had been stolen from him, snatched, apart from, maybe, it _hadn’t._ “Do you mean it? Vitya, do you mean that?” 

“Of course I do.” Victor’s heart warped and swelled at the tickle of a blush that came to Yuuri’s cheeks. Why hadn’t he said these things to Yuuri before? Because, like a prize idiot, he’d assumed that Yuuri would just _know_. “You are precious, _Luchik._ And so, so special.” He twirled a strand of Yuuri’s hair around his finger. If he shut his eyes he could pretend it was an angel feather, it was so soft. “That’s what you are! You’re an _angel_.” 

“Vitya.” Yuuri shook his head, the pink on his cheeks melding into a bright red colour that reached up to his ears. 

“What? You are!” Victor grinned, his mouth making a vague heart shape. “An angel. An _absolute_ angel. What did I ever do to deserve an angel like you, huh?”

Yuuri shook his head again. It felt like flowers were growing in his veins, like he was breathing in sunlight. He never wanted this feeling to stop. He knew, of course, that it would; that he and Victor had more talking to do, that there would doubtless be more arguments along the road, that anxiety would pounce and yank the metaphorical security blanket of Victor’s love from him, but that was okay. Because no matter what, Victor would always be _home_ , and Yuuri would always return home in the end.

Carefully, like he was handling a bird with a broken wing, Yuuri took Victor’s hand from his hair and kissed each fingertip. _You’re precious to me too. You’re everything._ When he looked up from his task, it was to see the wholly unusual but wholly wonderful sight of a flamingo-pink Victor, lips quivering with unadulterated adoration. 

“Can I kiss you?” Victor asked, because asking felt important. He couldn’t just _take_. He knew that now. Yuuri nodded eagerly, hungrily. Victor leant in but then halted, close enough that his nose touched Yuuri’s. _I want to play with my food._ “Can kissing lead to more-than-kissing?” 

Yuuri jutted up an eyebrow. _Two can play at that game._  

“Well, you’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?”

 

* * *

 

Sex is not the answer. It doesn’t fix anything. Of course it doesn’t. But after being apart, it felt _damn_ good. There had been the gentleness of featherlight fingertips and murmured kisses, but there had also been an aspect of rough _want_ and _need_ and _I’ve missed you_. It was electric. Not harnessed electricity, but a power storm, the flash of lightning that breaks an oppressively hot day. 

It hadn’t fixed anything. Of course it hadn’t. Neither of them had expected it to. But it had felt _good_ , and that’s what they had needed. A reunion. 

There they were laid in the too-small space of Yuuri’s bed. Post-sex cuddles were, Victor decided, the greatest gift ever imparted unto man (or woman). He had reached out to reel Yuuri into the safety net of his arms, only for the Japanese man to shake his head. Bemused, he’d let Yuuri shift closer of his own accord and then Yuuri’s arms were around Victor, tucking Victor’s head to his chest with a murmur of _listen, it beats for you, it’s yours_. Victor understood. Even after everything, Yuuri was opening up to him, _trusting_ him. _You’re a miracle, Yuuri Katsuki_. 

Victor shifted slightly, rubbing his nose against the soft indent of Yuuri’s chest. It wasn’t often that Victor got to feel small. 

“I love you, _Luchik.”_ His voice came out as a song, his tongue rolling on the _ik_.

“I love you too, Vitya.” Yuuri spoke straight down into Victor’s hair. A catlike gesture of affection, Yuuri nuzzled into the soft cloud of silver. _Home_. In that moment it didn’t matter where they were – they could have been in Hasetsu or St Petersburg or Timbuktu – to Yuuri, he was _exactly_ where he was supposed to be in a metaphysical sort of sense. He wet his lips. “Victor?” He said it quietly, just in case the addressed had maybe fallen asleep. 

“Hmm?” 

“What does _Luchik_ mean?” 

Victor unstuck himself from the clammy, sweat-slicked skin of Yuuri’s chest and sat at his full height, all the better to look down at Yuuri. He scrutinised the younger man, searching for the twitch of lips or flutter of an eyelash. But no. Yuuri was quite serious, and was looking up earnestly at Victor, something in his chest curling up tight – had he ruined it? Had he asked the wrong question? 

And then, Victor burst into a Catherine Wheel of laughter. He threw an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, squeezing him in close. Yuuri found himself laughing along too, the bright noise contagious in the most miraculous of ways. Their laughter melted together to form sparks of gold. It could have been music, not so much in its sound but in the beauty of it. 

“I’ve been calling you _Luchik_ for nearly a _year_ , Yuuri,” Victor wheezed out. Adorably embarrassed, Yuuri touched his nose to Victor’s chest, almost-hiding. “ _Luchik_. It means, _my little ray of light_ , _my little sunbeam._ ” He nudged a knuckle affectionately over Yuuri’s chin. “That’s what you are.” 

Yuuri repositioned his head so that his ear was pressed to Victor’s chest. He listened to the heartbeat and imagined it as _Lu-chik, Lu-chik._ He pouted his lips just enough that they melted against Victor’s skin. 

“Call me it again,” Yuuri purred. 

“ _Luchik_.” The word started as a warm rumble in Victor’s chest and Yuuri could _feel_ it. “My little ray of light. My most precious person. _Luchik. LuchikLuchikLuchik._ ” 

Yuuri made a note to ask for what he needed more often. 

 

* * *

 

It was mid-afternoon by the time they’d decided they should probably get dressed (the decision prompted my Mari knocking on the door and grumbling something that Yuuri translated as _Yuuri you and your asshole Russian need to help me with the housework_ ). Victor, who had left St Petersburg in such a rush that he’d packed nothing other than a toothbrush and his phone, was stood at Yuuri’s wardrobe, searching for something that might fit. He’d claimed a pair of boxers, and a pair of jeans that were baggy on Yuuri but fit Victor almost like leggings. He was fairly certain that all but the very smallest of Yuuri’s tops would fit him (even then, he was fairly convinced that he could rock the smaller ones as crop-tops) but it was just a case of finding one that would _suit_ him. Today was a day to be Instagram-ready, he was sure. 

_Ah! This looks more like it,_ Victor thought as he noticed a sky-just-before-night-blue jumper piled in a suspiciously high rumple in the back corner of the wardrobe. He plucked it up only to realise that, _hey this is mine_. The loss of his favourite jumper – which Yurio had accused him of losing in the locker room – had been felt heavily by Victor. Somewhat melodramatically, he hugged it to his chest. _Reunited at last._ Tugging it over his head, Victor revelled in the feeling of the fingertip-soft fabric falling airily over his torso. In the background, Yuuri was blushing furiously, mentally begging that no questions be asked.

Victor was about to turn around and coo something about Yuuri missing him, when he noticed what it was the sweater had been hiding; a cardboard box labelled _The Victor Nikiforov_. More than willing to feed both his curiosity and his vanity, Victor slotted his hands around the box and pulled it out. It was surprisingly light, and when he shook it there was a whisper-shuffle sound. 

He dropped onto the bed, balancing the box on his lap, and peeled it open. He couldn’t help but laugh, the sound a high shot of a thing. 

“Victor?” Yuuri spun around from where he’d been looking into his mirror, trying to do something with his bird nest of hair. His heart fired straight into his stomach. “Don’t look in there!” But it was too late; Victor was beaming that stupid heart-shaped smile of his down into the box as though he’d just uncovered the Holy Grail. “ _Vitya_.” 

“Ah, I think they definitely got my best angle here, _da_?” Victor said from behind a huge poster that he’d unfolded – a poster of Victor himself in his later teenage years, looking admittedly majestic in the opening pose of one of his more iconic performances, his hair flowing down to his waist in a silver torrent. He poked his head around the side of the poster and tried to imitate his past-self’s deeply serious expression. Victor ducked just in time to dodge a pillow-turned-projectile from Yuuri. “You never told me you were a fan, _Luchik._ ” 

Yuuri shifted uncomfortably, only to find that he didn’t actually feel all that uncomfortable. This was _Victor_. Victor wasn’t angry or repulsed or freaked out, Yuuri didn’t think, and actually seemed to be enjoying this – maybe a little bit _too_ much. When Victor patted the space next to him, an invitation, Yuuri obliged. 

He watched helplessly as Victor fished out another poster; this time one that a thirteen-year-old Yuuri had torn out of _International Figure Skating Magazine_ – the edges were still frayed from the tear. Strictly speaking, it was a front cover rather than a poster, but that hadn’t stopped Yuuri from bluetacking it to his bedroom wall. It was a close-up, just Victor’s face with that winning smile, one ethereally blue eye creased shut in a wink. Again, Victor tried to copy the pose. 

It was then that Yuuri, amidst his total but not totally unpleasant mortification, noticed something. Real Victor’s eyes were not the same blue as Poster Victor’s. They were cloudier, with touches of quartz in them. Poster Victor’s were flat, and so unbelievably blue. Sky blue. Real Victor’s were more an icy blue. Yuuri leant across and pecked Real Victor’s cheek, a rush of affection charging through him. 

“You have quite the collection, _Luchik_ ,” Victor murmured, flicking through the thick wodge of posters and interviews and front covers. “How come you never told me?” 

“Because it’s _embarrassing_.” Yuuri gave Victor a half-hearted glare as he did yet another impersonation – this time, a pout that was intended to be seductive. In the flesh, it looked delightfully ridiculous. “You were my first crush.”

“Your first crush,” Victor breathed the words with a sudden seriousness. He squeezed an arm around Yuuri’s waist. “And your last love.”

As much as Yuuri felt like he maybe should be rolling his eyes, he couldn’t deny that Victor’s words had touched him; Victor’s fingertips had dipped into the pool of his heart and sent ripples shivering outwards. He kissed Victor’s cheek again, and then his chin, his jaw. 

After a bouquet of moments, Victor picked out another poster, from when he was about Yurio’s age. Real Victor shook his head as his finger traced the side of Poster Victor’s face. 

“I didn’t _actually_ look like that, you know.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I had _horrific_ acne.” 

“You did?” Yuuri took the poster and squinted at it. “But. I can’t.” He adjusted his glasses. “You don’t here.” 

“Oh, I did. They just airbrushed it out of the picture, and I was wearing make-up. I had to be _perfect._ ” Victor shuffled through the posters, slow enough that Yuuri could clock each one. “None of these are _me_ , Yuuri. You know that, don’t you?” Yuuri didn’t fully understand what Victor meant, but the creaky, quiet tone of his fiancé’s voice told him that this was _important_. So he didn’t nod, but he did squeeze Victor’s forearm. _I’m listening._ “None of these pictures are me. They’re The Victor Nikiforov. And. That. I’m not that, I don’t think. Or if I am, I don’t think I want to be. Not anymore. It’s. I’m. I’m _tired_ , Yuuri.” 

At the bleed in Victor’s voice, Yuuri felt a primal urge to _protect_ well up inside of him. He let it spill out through his hands; one traced the incline of Victor’s jaw, the other wandering through the Russian’s hair. 

“I know _exactly_ who you are,” Yuuri whispered, his nose touched to Victor’s cheek. “You’re Vitya. _My_ _Vitya_. And that’s more than enough.” 

“But, it was, The Victor Nikiforov you had a crush on.” Yuuri had never heard anyone sound so intrinsically _tired_. He just wanted to wrap the older man up and protect him from the world; so he did, latching his arms securely around Victor, locking his legs around the older man’s waist.

“Maybe. But it was Vitya I fell in _love_ with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. I wanted Yuuri shifting out of Victor's kiss at the beginning of the chapter to be sort of symbolic. It was something that Victor wanted, and Yuuri prior to this had been willing to do whatever Victor wanted just to make him happy (apart from the airport scene). But not this time - he didn't feel comfortable kissing Victor right at that moment, so he let himself shift away. He did what he wanted rather than going along with Victor, which is sort of a big deal for Yuuri. At the same time though, the kiss isn't forceful and Victor accepts it when Yuuri shifts away - he, too, understands that it's important for Yuuri to feel comfortable.
> 
> 2\. Yuuri was wasted last night, how is he not struck down with the hangover from Hell? Right, so I'm basing this on my own experiences. All of the times (and trust me, there have been a fair few) that I've drunk enough to jettison vomit over any/everything, I've never had a hangover. I think it's because you get the alcohol out of your system? 
> 
> 3\. Wait a second - when Victor was calling Yuuri 'his Yuuri' it was unhealthy and a bit possessive; what's changed? Right, so I do have a couple of reasons for them calling each other theirs. First of all, it's a case of wanting to 'be' the others, rather than wanting the other to belong to them. Secondly, it's no longer one-sided so the balance is a little bit healthier I feel; similarly, they both ask for it. Thirdly, I think it's less about belonging to each other but belonging with each other, if that makes sense?
> 
> 4\. I'm crap at writing kissing. So I can only apologise. Profusely. Let's all just take a moment to thank the sweet Lord that I didn't attempt writing a sex scene.
> 
> 5\. With the posters I wanted to show the destruction of The Victor Nikiforov as myth, for both Yuuri and Victor himself. Yuuri's put Victor on this pedestal, because he's got this idea of him being more-than-human, of him being almost godlike - apart from now he knows that Victor is just a man, that he isn't perfect. Likewise, Victor's realising that he's not The Man The Myth The Legend, but just The Man - and that's okay. Yuuri loves him for who he is, not for this larger-than-life persona that a lifetime in the spotlight has cultivated. There is such immense pressure on Victor to be perfect, and there has been since he was really quite young, which was a cause of a lot of the communication problems in the first place. I guess, in this chapter, I wanted to show that Victor is sort of vulnerable too.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, much love to those who have commented (I adore reading what people think!) and I hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
> Next chapter will feature: Yuuri taking Victor into his past, Yurio showing up out of the mists, and SPARKLERS.


	13. Family

 

 

“There’s something I want to show you.” Yuuri’s voice was a soft poke, as gentle as the fading light of a star as it approaches morning. But it shone, and Victor noticed it. He turned from where he’d been lolling on Yuuri’s bed and sat up, raising an eyebrow in earnest concern. Yuuri kept his eyes on his knees, where his hands had turned to rocklike fists. “Can we go for a walk?” 

“Of course we can.” Victor reached out, gloving Yuuri’s hands with his. He rubbed with his thumbs and fingertips until he felt the tension exhale out of them, easing Yuuri’s hands from tight fists to gentle folds. “ _Luchik_ , is something wrong?” 

For a moment, Yuuri considered either shaking his head or not answering at all. That would have been the easiest thing to do – but _easiest_ didn’t always equal _right_. They had only patched things up that very morning, and Yuuri wasn’t about to put their heartache, their hard work, to waste. _Communication is key. Victor won’t know what I need unless I tell him_. 

So Yuuri squeezed Victor’s hands, one and then the other, heaving his eyes up to meet his fiancés. All he found in those two glacial pools was pure, unadulterated love – and maybe something else too, something deeper, something that had been forming before but not quite there. _Understanding_? No. It was more than understanding, but that was certainly a part of it. It was something that couldn’t be named, and that was okay. _I just want to hold you and hold you and hold you, even when I’m not actually holding you._ When they’d been put to work in the kitchen earlier that afternoon, under Hiroko’s watchful eye(Yuuri in charge of the washing up, Victor taking his role as Chief Ingredient Fetcher extremely seriously), Yuuri had still felt as though he were being pressed close to Victor’s chest. Or maybe that was too literal. What Yuuri had been feeling was that he _belonged_ in a way that he hadn’t felt for _years_. And he wanted to thank Victor. 

“There’s a place I want to show you.” Yuuri stood up, going to grab a jacket from his wardrobe. He could feel the warm glow of Victor stood behind him. “It’s important.” He swallowed thickly. But Victor had shared his insecurities, so it was only fair that Yuuri shared his. _I need to show him. I need to be good enough. Not for The Victor Nikiforov, but for My Vitya._ “Ice Castle.” 

Even though Victor knew exactly what that meant, what that was, he didn’t say anything – something deep in his gut told him that he had to let Yuuri tell his own story. Yuuri had to want to share, and Victor had to listen. He wanted to know _everything_ about his Yuuri, but only when Yuuri wanted him to know it. Or else it would be meaningless, like buying a gold medal rather than winning one. 

As they walked, Victor’s arm melted firmly to Yuuri’s shoulders to form a protective sort of bubble around the younger man, Victor felt excitement glide up his spine in great rolling loops. It was like his body just knew _iceiceice_. And then there was Yuuri – Yuuri _and_ ice. He was _finally_ getting somewhere, stood on the threshold of a great palace. He was going to know every corner of Yuuri, map it out in stardust and gold – and not even for entirely selfish reasons. Of course, there was the self-centred side of it ( _I want Yuuri and I want the ice and I want them together and all at once and it shouldn’t be a big deal because it’s just the ice and why can’t things just be easy_ ) but, the more he thought about it, the more Victor realised that knowing, _understanding_ , all of these different facets would give him the keys to all different doors. If, for example, Yuuri had a bad dream, Victor might better know how to comfort him because he could understand the cause. 

The cold cloaked them, choked them, suffocated them. Victor had gone out sans jacket, and Yuuri leant purposefully closer to him as they walked. Partly for support, but mostly because he couldn’t stop thinking _it’s so cold Victor will get sick if I don’t keep him warm._ He could remember watching a documentary once about penguins, how they huddled together to keep warm; Yuuri hoped that the principle also applied to humans. 

Victor could tell that they were getting closer to Ice Castle because he could hear the wet rattle of Yuuri’s breathing get quicker, like the younger man was running uphill even though they were going at a relatively leisurely stroll. Everything in Victor told him to speed up, to go on ahead and tug Yuuri along with him, as he had done with the rink in St Petersburg. And he very nearly did it. But then, he didn’t. 

“ _Luchik_ ,” Victor purred, coming to a stop. He placed his hands over the tops of Yuuri’s arms, trying to kill several birds with one stone with the action; warming up his hands, ensuring that Yuuri was warm, comforting Yuuri. “You don’t have to do this. _We_ don’t have to do this. Whatever you feel comfortable with, Yuuri, is what I want.” 

Resolve hardened in Yuuri’s gut; _Vitya deserves the sun and the moon and every last star._ He nodded, once. He took Victor’s hand and, just as the Russian turned to head back in the direction of home, swiftly started trooping in the opposite direction. Victor was with him. Victor _cared_. He could do this, if Victor held his hand. Because this wasn’t something Yuuri _alone_ was doing. _They_ were doing it. _Together_. 

To Victor, Ice Castle was not impressive. The most grandiose thing about it was the sprawling set of concrete stairs leading up to the entrance, but otherwise it sort of resembled a small, beat-up high school with pupils who’d pick fights just for kicks and staff who smoked in the playground. But this was where Yuuri, podgy baby Yuuri from Hiroko’s photograph album, had spent most of his childhood. And that turned it into a holy place, sacred, special. 

Yuuri stopped at the steps. This was the closest he’d gone, _willingly,_ to an ice rink since he was seventeen. He tried to breathe, but every time he managed to inhale the oxygen rushed straight out through his pores. Victor squeezed his hand; _I’m here_. So Yuuri climbed the concrete steps, Victor’s arm around his back as though scared that the Japanese man would fall. 

“We could go in,” Yuuri breathed the words, and it felt as though he were holding his soul out to Victor in a tatty shoebox, as though it were a stray kitten scraped up from the side of the road. “Officially, it’s shut. But Yuuko will still be working. She’d let us in. She’d love to meet you.” 

Given his track record of meetings with Yuuri’s female companions, Victor had to admit that he didn’t exactly find the idea appealing. But he did find the idea of getting Yuuri on the ice, of spinning and gliding and _flying_ with him extraordinarily appealing. If he’d been given the choice of sex with Yuuri or skating with him, he would have instantaneously chosen the latter. At least, in that moment, he would have. 

_But what would Yuuri choose?_ Looking down at his fiancé, Victor found that he knew the answer. Yuuri’s eyes, gazing up at the moon as though to distract himself from all earthly goings-on, were full and wet. It was the most painful kind of wetness – penned-in tears, which was somehow worse than proper crying. _He doesn’t want to let me down._  

Victor reeled Yuuri in close and buried his face, nose-first, in the younger man’s hair. He breathed it in. _Home_. _Luchik_. 

“Your hair’s getting long.” As though to demonstrate, Victor tickled his fingers against the duckling-feather tips of Yuuri’s hair, where it was reaching down the back of the younger boy’s neck. 

“Do you like it? Should I get it cut?”

  
“I like it. Very much.” He pressed a kiss into the thick jungle of black, and stepped back ever so slightly. Yuuri stepped with him, magnetised. Victor traced the younger man’s blush with his thumb. “If it’s okay with you,” Victor said steadily, quietly, “I would like to head back now. I’m feeling pretty jet-lagged.” 

“A-are, are you sure? I. I thought, you’d. Want.” 

“I want you to be happy, _Luchik_. That’s _all_ I want.” 

The launch was so quick and strong that Victor – who himself was rather quick and rather strong – almost didn’t catch Yuuri as he flung himself at the Russian. But he did. Of course he did. He was Yuuri’s Vitya, and he wouldn’t drop his _Luchik_ for _anything._ Never before had Victor realised that he could care so much and so deeply about someone. Never before had Victor realised that he could be cared about so much and so deeply by someone. 

As they peeled apart, Yuuri stretched out a yawn – a small tiptoe of a sound. That was it; Victor was crouching down in front of him and refusing to get up until Yuuri – who wasn’t sure if his cheeks had ever felt so hot – accepted the offer of a piggyback. 

The walk home was slow and easy, Victor all the warmer for having Yuuri clinging to his back like a bushbaby. As they, as one entity, plodded across the bridge Victor felt the hug-warm puffs of Yuuri’s breath evening out against his neck; _aw, he’s asleep_. So he did the only reasonable thing he could do in such a situation. Keeping stooped over to prevent Yuuri from slipping, Victor pulled out his phone and snapped a selfie that was more Yuuri’s face ( _he’s such an angelic sleeper how does anyone look that good asleep)_ than Victor’s.

Once they were back at the Katsuki’s, Yuuri tucked snuggly into bed, Victor uploaded it to Instagram with the caption _when bae rides you home <3_ 

Less than a moment later, a comment from Phichit popped up. _well it looks like the Titanic has turned itself into the HMS Victuuri #truelove #victuuri5ever_  

A heartbeat after that, Yurio’s name popped up followed by _you disgust me in every conceivable way._ Fifteen minutes later, after comments from around the world had started flooding in, drowning each other out, Victor noticed a second comment from the younger Russian - _#victuuri5ever_

By the time Victor and Yuuri woke up the next morning, it was trending – much to Yuuri’s bashful dismay. Screeches of _never tell anyone I am riding you ever again or else I will literally never ride you ever again_ would echo in Victor’s ears for weeks. Still, Victor thought, it had been totally worth it.

  

* * *

 

It had been Yuuri’s idea. Victor had been in Hasetsu for just over a week, making a general nuisance of himself as he tried to ‘help’ in the kitchen, and Yuuri realised that he hadn’t really shown his fiancé around all that much. They had gone into the heart of town a few times, mostly on errands invented by Hiroko to spare her patrons from Victor’s _katsudon_ (which nobody, not even Mari, had the heart to tell him was akin to eating brimstone), and a handful of evening strolls, but mostly they had stayed in the confines of Yu-topia Katsuki – as Mari put it – mooning over one another. It was like falling in love for the first time all over again. Victor had never felt so young. Yuuri had never felt so free. 

That particular evening, however, Yuuri had made plans for them. He had gone ahead to set it all up, something in his cells jittering all over the place in a tickle. Yuuri’s anxiety was buzzing in the background, and maybe that was what was driving it; anxiety doesn’t just make you afraid or miserable. It can make you manic, frantic, _right now and everything perfect_. So maybe a part of Yuuri’s pounding heart _was_ down to that, but he was sure that it couldn’t be the _sole_ reason. He was doing something nice for Victor. No. He was doing something nice for _both of them._ Pinpricks ran across his arms, a growl murmured _this is a stupid idea_ but Yuuri forced himself to ignore it. 

Victor had found the note on a post-it in Yuuri’s bedroom: _My Vitya – meet at the beach at six. Yours always, Your Luchik xxxxxx_  

So that was what Victor was doing. Apart from it wasn’t six, it was half past five because he just hadn’t been able to wait. He imagined that he felt very much like Makkachin before going on a walk, if dog emotions amplified when applied to humans, like a sort of reverse dog-years thing. _Dog-feelings. I’m onto something there._  

It was a surprisingly warm evening, and the few people that Victor passed on his way to the beach weren’t wearing coats. The call of the seagulls swirled with the gurgling of the sea and Victor wondered if this was Yuuri’s lullaby sound, in the way that blades on ice was Victor’s. 

He was trying to force himself to walk the last stretch to the beach, to not be _too_ early, but then he saw Yuuri – his back to Victor, gazing out at the darkening glass of the sea – and Victor couldn’t help it. He ran. He sprinted. He _flew_. Yuuri spun around just in time to register what was happening before Victor plucked him by the chin and pulled him in for the softest of kisses. If it hadn’t been for the warmth, Yuuri almost wouldn’t have felt it. But he did. He felt it _everywhere_. He still felt it even after Victor had broken off. 

“What was that for?” Yuuri asked when Victor stepped back.

“I missed you.” _Obviously._

“Vitya.” Yuuri rolled his eyes, but couldn’t deny the way everything seemed tinged with pink, the way his heart did a pirouette in his chest. “You saw me less than an hour ago.” 

“I miss you whenever you’re not around.” Victor grinned down at his fiancé, their rings glinting sunset gold. “I miss you when I _blink_.” 

Yuuri shook his head, laughter looping lightly from his lips. He got onto his tiptoes, Victor’s arms folding automatically around his waist to steady him, and poked the centre of Victor’s head – and then he pressed a kiss there too, just for good measure. 

“Now, why are we here, _Luchik_?” Victor was thrumming with excitement. He _loved_ surprises, and Yuuri knew as such. 

“Shut your eyes, Vitya.” Yuuri waited until Victor did as he was told. He saw Victor’s eyelids flicker and, to prevent temptation, blindfolded his hands over the older man’s eyes. “Now. _Listen._ ” 

It was quiet, and Victor wasn’t sure he was listening for. But maybe that wasn’t the point. He wasn’t supposed to be _searching_. He exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. Yuuri was close enough that he could smell him and, really, how was Victor supposed to focus on _anything_ with Yuuri close and perfect and touching his face? A seagull sung out overhead. Then another. A _caaaw_ and then an answer; _ahahah._ Steady as the tide. The Earth turned beneath his feet, just as it should. 

“Do you hear them?” Victor could hear the glow of Yuuri’s voice. “The _seagulls_ , Vitya. Seagulls here, in Hasetsu.” Yuuri pulled his hands away from Victor’s face. The smile on Yuuri’s face made the sun dull in comparison, and the stars seem less dazzling. It made ice melt. “Seagulls there, in St Petersburg. It’s a _sign._ We’re connected. We’re _linked_. Home isn’t here, Vitya. And it isn’t in St Petersburg, either. It’s not _anywhere_.” Yuuri wet his lips. Victor saw how Yuuri’s hands were shaking and he took them. His throat tightened and he thought he might maybe be crying, but that was okay. “ _We_ are home. I. I. I think I’ve figured it out, Victor. We don’t just _love_ each other. We’re _home_ to each other.” 

There was a moment of silence. Well, not quite silence – there was the seagulls, the tidal heave of Yuuri’s panting as though he’d just run a marathon. Victor just stared at his fiancé as though in awe, which he was, and then he was kissing Yuuri, arms around him, anchoring him, being anchored. _Home_. 

“Oh! Oh of _course_ I show up just when you two are eating face. Fucking _fantastic_.” There was a forced gagging sound, and Victor turned around to confirm what he already knew; Yurio was there, in Japan, in Hasetsu, on the beach that was also St Petersburg. If anyone had asked him why, Yurio would have just shrugged and grumbled _wanderlust._ “And I thought seeing Vitya’s Instagram was bad.” 

Yuuri stepped shyly behind Victor, as though sealing himself behind a protective barrier. Yurio didn’t like him. Had called him a _pig_ on more than one occasion, used a voice sharp enough to cut, pushed and shoved, and – 

And, _holy shit_ , Yuri Fucking Plisetsky was _hugging_ him. 

The smaller Russian had pushed past Victor to wrap his arms tightly around Yuuri’s middle. It wasn’t exactly the best hug Yuuri had ever experienced – it was too stiff, too awkward, too _am I doing this right?_ – but he was too stunned to do anything other than just accept it. After a moment, Yuuri wound his arm around his Russian counterpart, and gave one solitary, sticky pat on the back. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen Yurio hug anyone else before, and vaguely he wondered _is this Yurio’s first ever hug?_ But no. It couldn’t be. Surely. He must have hugged Victor, or his grandfather at least. But they were the only two people Yuuri could think of, so he gave Yurio a gentle squeeze. _He’s just a kid, after all_. _It’s easy to forget that he’s only fifteen._ He found himself thinking of those airbrushed pictures of Victor at Yurio’s age. 

“I think, _Luchik,_ ” Victor smirked his words out, “that Yurio is saying he missed you.” 

Yurio jumped away from Yuuri as quickly as if he’d been burnt, and Yuuri found himself missing the sharp-softness of him. It was duly noted by all involved that Yurio did not, in fact, deny Victor’s accusation. 

After a stiflingly awkward moment, Victor swooped forwards and scooped his two younger companions into a group hug. Next to him, Yuuri could feel Yurio squirming half-heartedly. He could feel _home_ evolving, growing, becoming warmer.

“Oh!” Yuuri shook his head at himself as Victor released them. “I forgot. Congratulations on taking silver at the Europeans, Yurio!”

“Maybe,” Victor put in with his blindingly bright you-ain’t-shit smile, “if you hadn’t been so distracted by That Kazakh Boy, you could have got gold.”

“ _Vitya_.” Yuuri crossed his arms and narrowed his gaze at his other half. “Getting silver is an _amazing_ achievement, especially for someone Yurio’s age. And don’t make fun of him for being in love. It’s _sweet_.” 

“I’m not _in love_.” Yurio all but retched the last word. Victor and Yuuri shared a glance. “Seeing you two flop around with each other has put me off for life.” 

“But, _Kitten.”_ Yurio glared razors at his old friend, and Yuuri saved the nickname to the banks of his memory. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever use it, and if he did then the odds were he would replay it in his head over and over until he’d convinced himself that Yurio hated him for it, but it felt like a good thing to know. “You are my only chance at being an uncle.” 

This should have been a joke, Yuuri thought. But instead he watched as the two Russians caught each other’s gaze and, if he hadn’t known better, he could have sworn that he saw Yurio’s eyes swell. Just a _little_ bit. But then Yurio looked away and sneered something about never letting Victor near his children because the last thing the world (and Victor’s ego) needed was a Victor mini-me. 

Victor stepped closer to his fiancé, his arm taking root around Yuuri’s waist. Catlike in his affection, Yuuri nudged his cheek against that warm spot just under Victor’s chin. Of all of Victor’s body parts, he thought that maybe this simple spot of skin was his favourite. Together, they cast their eyes out to sea and listened to the seagulls. 

“Hey, what’s all this stuff?” Yurio’s voice broke the lovers out of their pleasantly drifting reverie. He was pointing to a heap a little way down the beach – a sack of kindling wood, a box of matches, a long-thin package, a big black cauldron-like thing, and two cardboard boxes; one labelled _The Victor Nikiforov_ , the other in Japanese characters that Victor recognised as _Yuuri on Ice_.  

“Ah, it. Um.” Yuuri shifted, eyes down on the sand. Victor touched his hand. _I’m listening._ “I thought, we could have a bonfire. That’s why I asked Vitya down here.” 

“A bonfire?” A spark lit up in Yurio’s eyes that made Yuuri think _pyromaniac._ “Cool!” 

There was something endearing about watching Victor order Yurio about as the pair tried to light a fire in the cauldron, only for Victor to be totally incapable of lighting a match. Yuuri watched them, cross-legged on the sand, drawing a line with his finger every time Victor snapped a match, and a circle every time Yurio cussed. Yuuri could have told them that they needed to shelter the match from the wind, or to light a piece of paper first and then put that in with the wood – but no. _This is too much fun_. 

The two cardboard boxes remained untouched, until Yuuri gave Victor a meaningful sort of look. Victor, in turn, then told Yurio to go look for driftwood lest they run out of kindling. The teenager dutifully trekked off into the starlit distance to carry out his task, Victor keeping one eye on him. 

“I can’t believe he came all the way here,” Yuuri whispered, shaking his head. 

“It’s because he cares. Deep down, he _really_ cares. He’s kind of like a cat, _da?_ He’ll scratch your eyes out but he’ll mean it with affection. Or something like that.” Victor turned his full attention to Yuuri. “This has been the _perfect_ evening, _Luchik._ I’m thinking we should make Date Night a regular fixture.” 

“I would like that,” Yuuri murmured, leaning up to kiss Victor’s cheek. He stepped away and picked up the box labelled _The Victor Nikiforov._ He held it over the fire, his fingers shaking slightly around the corners. He forced himself to look Victor in the eye. “I don’t love The Victor Nikiforov. I love _you_. I love Vitya. Because he’s not perfect but perfect things aren’t beautiful and he’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. He’s my home. He’s more than enough. And I love him so much it’s wrong to try to put it into words because no amount of syllables can ever be enough to cover it all.” 

He dropped the box. The flames licked and bit into the sides of it, slowly at first, tasting, and then it gulped, swallowing the box whole, and the posters with it. A weight that Victor hadn’t realised was there was lifted from his chest, and it was like breathing for the first time. 

Without being prompted, Victor picked up the _Yuuri on Ice_ box. It was too light to be any of the boxes Hiroko had shown him (indeed, Hiroko had refused to let most of the memorabilia go, but had let Yuuri take a few of the costumes), but Victor was perceptive enough to at least realise that the act was symbolic. As Yuuri had done, he held it over the fire. There was a moment of blank panic as he searched for the right thing to say, but then he stumbled upon the first word and it flowed from there, straight from his soul to his mouth. 

“ _Luchik_. I don’t know the whole story about you skating, why you stopped, and that. That’s okay. It _really_ is. Because I don’t care about who you were, all I care about is who you _are_ and who you will be. I don’t need your past when I’ve got your future.” 

He dropped the box and the empty weight in his arms was immediately replaced by Yuuri, who was smooshing his face into Victor’s chest as though trying to become one with the older man. Victor tucked his nose to Yuuri’s hair, breathed in the tropical-floral scent of his shampoo (which was also Victor’s), rocking them from side-to-side. It felt almost like a slow dance, in time to the soft lapping reaches of the ocean and the cries of the seagulls. _Home_. 

When Yurio returned, his arms piled with straggly bits of sun-bleached driftwood, he did not comment about them hugging, and he did not ask about the missing boxes. He did, however, pick up the long-thin packet. With a nod – and a ridiculously slushy smile – from Yuuri, he tore it open. 

“ _Sparklers!”_ For once, Yurio sounded his age. 

Together, the three of them stayed out late into the night, writing stories into the sky.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter:
> 
> 1\. I really wanted the journey to Ice Castle to sort of contrast the journey to the rink in St Petersburg, if you can cast your mind back to chapter four. Yes, Victor still wants to get to the ice and he's even (internally) impatient about it, but this time he puts his own wants below Yuuri's needs. Instead of Yuuri having to have a breakdown and beg Victor not to make him go, this time it's Victor saying 'we don't have to do this', which I think is important because it shows that a) he's putting Yuuri first and b) he can tell that something is wrong with Yuuri without Yuuri having to burst into tears. Victor is more than willing to head back to the Katsuki's, and I think that's what makes Yuuri all the more the determined to see it through - Victor's there supporting him, not forcing him. He feels protected by Victor rather than threatened.
> 
> 2\. Yuuri does still perhaps think too much of Victor/too little of himself, because that's not something that's just going to go away, but I think Victor is conscious of this now. An example of where I tried to show that in this chapter is with Yuuri's hair. Victor comments on it and immediately Yuuri is offering to cut it off because, of course, there is nothing more important than Victor liking his hair. Victor notices this so goes out of the way to compliment Yuuri's hair. This is also seen with Victor pretending to be tired, to give Yuuri an out of going in to the rink.
> 
> 3\. Phichit's Instagram comment ('Titanic has turned itself into the HMS Victuuri'). I'm not sure if this is just something we study here in the UK, but at the Battle of Trafalgar the British flagship was HMS Victory, and that comment is meant to be a punny reference to that.
> 
> 4\. Where the Hell did Yurio come from? Right, so he got on a plane from the Czech Republic (where he was competing in the European Figure Skating Championships) to Tokyo, travelled to Hasetsu, when to Yu-topia and was told by Hiroko where to find Victor and Yuuri. Kind of like in episode two of the anime, he just pottered over there of his own accord (and much to Yakov's dismay). 
> 
> 5\. This isn't really that relevant, but I imagine that after playing with the sparklers, the three of them sit down on the beach, waiting for the fire to burn out. In the process Yurio, who is exhausted because he's just flown to Japan, falls asleep, so Victor carries him home and it makes him think of when Yurio was a little kid, and he stayed late at the rink to watch Victor practice but he would always fall asleep so Victor would carry him out to his grandpa, who would be waiting to take him home. I was going to write that into the chapter, but then I didn't.
> 
>  
> 
> There are only two chapters left (one proper chapter, and the epilogue)! I've started planning another fic, and let's just say - it's pretty different from this one. I'm super excited to start work on it because it's going to be fantasy, and I've never written fantasy before. It'll probably be a total disaster, but at least I'll have fun writing it.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, thank you very much to those who have commented, and I hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
> Next chapter: Yurio comes to the conclusion that being The Third Wheel™ is a fate worse than death, Yuuri tells Victor everything, and the boys make themselves a home.


	14. Home Again

 

 

Yurio had spent the past five days trying to get Victor alone. Yuuri, however, had made this somewhat impossible. Or, rather, _Victor’s_ obsession with having some part of his body perpetually touching some part of Yuuri’s body had. They didn’t even separate to _shower_ which was, Yurio thought, utterly sickening. They had become one of those Coffee Shop PDA Couples – sans the coffee shop. Victor and Yuuri were happy, for which Yurio was willing to admit (at least to himself) he was grateful, but _come on_ _this is getting ridiculous_. They couldn’t even watch television together, the three of them, without Victor hauling Yuuri into his lap and gushing sweet-nothings. On one of the evenings spent in front of the T.V. Yurio had briefly thought _Katsudon looks so happy I wonder what it’s like to have someone to hold you like that_ and that had curtailed into _Otabek has nice strong arms and a face I don’t mind looking at_ but then he had shaken his head, thrown a pillow at the lovebirds, and told them to get a room. Which was a mistake, considering that their room was directly next to his and the walls were oh-so-thin. 

His chance came on his sixth day in Japan, when Yuuri got roped into helping with the kitchen. Victor had jumped up to go with him, but Yuuri had purred something seethingly obnoxious, saccharine, about Victor deserving some rest. So there Yurio was, in his room where they’d all been playing a video game (he’d bought his console along with him), with Victor, who was looking to be a serious contender for the World’s Most Intense Pouter. 

“Get that look off your face, old man.” Yurio would have the conversation with Victor that he needed to have, but there was no harm in teasing him a little first. In reminding him that, as touching as it was that he’d got his prince back, it didn’t make it okay for them to be all over each other in front of Yurio. “Love’s made you pathetic.” 

“It’s not just _love_ , Kitten.” Victor shook his head, a dreamy sheen to his eyes that made Yurio want to scratch them out. This really _was_ getting out of hand. “It’s _home_.” 

“You live in St Petersburg, moron.” 

“Oh, you don’t _understand_.” Victor let out a little laugh, waving a hand dismissively at his younger friend. He did consider telling Yurio about the seagulls but then, no, that was a gift that Yuuri had given him. Instead, he jutted an eyebrow and let his lips slip into a smirk. “Anyway. We haven’t spoken about the Europeans.” 

“Yes we have.” Yurio blinked – Victor had re-watched Yurio’s two routines and then given very in-depth, very unasked-for critiques. 

“Not about the _juicy_ stuff. Was it nice to see Beka?” 

Yurio flushed a, quite frankly alarming, shade of scarlet. Beka was just a nickname – it wasn't like he was running around calling Otabek Altin  _Luchik_ or something else equally-vomit inducing – but it was something that was just _Yurio’s_. To Yurio, who was somewhat socially challenged in matters that didn’t revolve around who could fling the sharpest metaphorical dagger, calling Otabek _Beka_ had been something deeply personal. 

“How do you know I call him that?” He was too shocked, too embarrassed to deny it. "Which bastard told you?"

“Oh, I have my sources.” Victor tapped the side of his nose. “And they tell me that you spent a _lot_ of time with _Beka_.” It felt nice, making fun of Yurio. Like things were _exactly_ how they were meant to be. “So. How was it? Do I need to break his legs?” 

“ _No!_ No. There will be no leg-breaking.” Yurio growled at Victor, bunching his hands into fists. “And there will be no talking about Otabek.” Victor’s pout intensified to stratospheric levels, but Yurio was unmoved. “Keep your disproportionately large nose out of my business.” 

Victor collapsed backwards on the bed with a dramatic cry, flopping his arm over his forehead at a right angle. 

“How you _wound_ me, Kitten!” He hugged his hands over his nose as though trying to comfort it. “I have a _gorgeous_ nose. A god among noses. Yuuri likes it when it’s cold and I-” 

“I’ll show you just how I can wound you if you don’t shut up,” Yurio snapped.

Victor couldn’t help but smile in response because, well, it was Yurio and this was how things were meant to be between them. He would find out all of the dirt on Otabek, even if he would have to resort to using his ‘sources’ (namely Phichit, who seemed to somehow know the minutiae of everyone’s love life, and a Swiss skater called Christophe Giacometti who was just generally in the know), and he would, indeed, threaten to break Otabek's legs if he were to break Yurio’s heart. Because, Victor was fairly sure, Yurio _did_ have one. _He’s not too grown-up for me to look out for him._

There was a stuttered, choking sound of utter dismay as Victor vaulted to sit back up and, as he did so, ruffled a hand through Yurio’s hair. The teenager scowled at him, and spent the next three minutes rectifying the tornado that Victor had managed to whip his hair into. Once Yurio was satisfied that he no longer resembled a scarecrow, he gave the older man a shove – just hard enough to let Victor know what would happen if he did that again. 

There was a pause.

“I need to talk to you about something.” He hadn’t meant to do it like this, to throw it out there at random, but he couldn’t think about how else to approach the subject. “About Yuuri.” 

“Look, if it’s about, um. Nighttime things. We’ll, be quieter.” And then, because some part of Victor was stuck in its belief that Yurio’s innocence was in dire need of protection, he added; “I just really like hugging him.” 

“It’s not about that.” 

Victor knew it was serious by the tone of Yurio’s voice. Generally, there were two tones Yurio used in everyday conversation. Firstly, there was the deep, road-rash growl of when he was angry. Secondly, there was the sharp, venomous but at the same time oddly airy _hisss_ of when he was teasing, usually with partially unintended cruelty. This was neither of those, and nor was it the small, soft rainfall of when something was seriously bothering Yurio.  No, this was hard and low, but smudged around the edges. _Concern._  

After a moment, Victor nodded. His breath scraped at his throat as he exhaled. 

“I know why he stopped skating.” Yurio looked down at his lap, for some reason unable to meet Victor’s eyes. “I kept bugging Yakov but he wouldn’t tell me, so I Googled it.” Victor was mildly surprised to find a sort of faraway look to Yurio’s eyes and, although it was Victor who felt like he was slowly drifting away, he put an arm around the teenager’s shoulders. Yurio let him. “It made me think – we. We won’t get to skate forever. Anything could happen.” What was left unsaid was _I don’t know what I would do without the ice_ , but Victor heard it all the same. _He’s too much like me._ “But. You don’t know, do you? About what happened. I could tell you.” 

“Yuri,” Victor sighed. Everything in him was hissing _ask him ask him ask him_. “Thank you, but no. It. Look, it’s complicated. You’ll understand when you’re older.” 

“I might understand,” Yurio mumbled in a very un-Yurio way. _I just want to help. I want my family to be happy._ “I’m not a kid, you know.” 

“I. I know. I know you’re not.” Victor sighed, semi-aching for the long-ago time when Yurio would have taken his word as gospel. But maybe, he thought, it was good that he had the younger Russian there to question him, to make him think. “Yuuri has to tell me himself, I think. It’s a trust thing. I want to know. _God_ , I want to know. But it doesn’t mean anything unless Yuuri tells me himself.” 

Unbeknownst to the Russians, outside of the bedroom door was Yuuri (who had only been required for a menial task), who understood vastly more Russian than Victor understood Japanese – not quite enough to understand the intricacies of their conversation, but more than enough to just about follow. 

He had always known that, one day, he would have to tell Victor about what had happened. About the darkness and the hammers and the cold. It had loomed over him almost since day one of their relationship, an oppressive storm pushing down on him and making him feel like a liar, bad, worthless, not good enough for anyone and certainly not good enough for Victor. For the first time, listening to Victor and Yurio through the door, Yuuri found that, actually, he _wanted_ to tell Victor everything. Absolutely everything. He wanted to sob and scream and cry it, and let his fiancé catch him as he fell, hold him, tell him it would be okay. Because it would. For the first time Yuuri knew for sure what he had suspected for a while – he could _trust_ Victor. Totally and wholly. It felt like breaking the skin of the sea and breathing for the first time in too long, feeling the light on his face. 

Yuuri wanted to tell Victor not because Victor deserved to know (which he did), but because Yuuri had realised that he deserved to be able to talk about it, to share the burden. He wanted Victor to be someone he could cry to and have say _I know_ , because they really _did._

So Yuuri slipped back into his Russian namesake’s room. Both Victor and Yurio looked up at him with features shrunk down to pinpricks, like little kids caught stealing from the cookie jar. The looks lasted for a moment and then melted – Yurio into his signature scowl, Victor into a soft smile because, really, how could he not smile when Yuuri was within reaching distance? 

“Um.” Yuuri cleared his throat. He could feel the floor warping and tilting beneath him, his breath getting caught on brambles. “Vitya? Can. Can I talk to you, please? In my. In our room?” 

The smile washed from Victor’s face and Yuuri hated himself for it. But he needed this, and he had resolved to ask for the things he needed. Victor murmured something in Russian to Yurio before getting up. Taking Yuuri’s hands firmly in his, he let his fiancé lead him through to their room. All sorts of things were scurrying through Victor’s head – what if he’d messed up again, and he just hadn’t realised it? 

“Vitya.” Yuuri’s voice was soft-strong, like spider silk, and he patted his bed, an invitation to sit. Victor did so. Yuuri stayed standing. He fidgeted for a moment, just long enough to talk himself out of it, only to find that he didn’t. “I. I’m going to tell you. About skating. About why I stopped.” 

Victor’s eyes widened like cell walls breaking. He glided them over Yuuri, at how the younger man was pacing, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to leave an imprint, looking at anything other than Victor. He reached out and folded his fingers around Yuuri’s, a soft squeeze. _I’m listening. I’m here._ Yuuri squeezed back. 

“I was seventeen. It was a few days before the All-Japan Figure Skating Championships – I was going to win. Everyone knew it, even. Even me. It was going to be _my year_. I was going to go to the Grand Prix and skate alongside _The Victor Nikiforov_.” Softly, Victor fiddled with Yuuri’s fingers, the touch fluid and constant. He knew Yuuri liked constants. “So I stayed late to practice one night, at a rink in Sapporo – that’s the city where the competition was being held. A-and, and.” Yuuri stumbled a little, his head spinning. It was bright in his bedroom, the light was on, the curtains open, but then everything was so _dark_. Shadowy. Cold. He shivered but it was a shudder. “Suddenly the lights went out. It was so _dark_. Vitya,” he gasped his fiancé’s name and it was like breathing in water, “it was so dark, so fucking dark and I couldn’t see, I couldn’t see anything, I couldn’t see them coming and I should have been able to _fight_ but I didn’t because I couldn’t, there were three of them, I couldn’t see them coming and it, i-it, _hurt.”_

Victor couldn’t stand it. No matter how much he wanted to know what had happened, he never wanted to hear Yuuri, _Luchik_ , sounding, looking, breathing, _panicking_ like that. He got up and Yuuri flinched back and, fuck, _this is what horrified feels like_. 

Everything was telling Victor to bundle Yuuri up in his arms, to cradle him close, but he didn’t listen to what his heart, his soul was telling him to do. Instead, he listened to Yuuri’s trickling whimpers of _don’t touch me, please, please don’t touch me, not right now, I can't, I'm sorry but please don't._ So Victor stood about a foot away from Yuuri, and then gradually lowered himself to be sat cross-legged on the floor. His face was open and soft, and slightly curved with a smile. Not a happy smile, of course not, nor an Everything’s Alright smile (because it wasn’t), but with an I Love You and I’m Here for You smile. Despite the tears welling in his eyes, it was not a fake smile. Not in the ways that mattered. 

“Th-they, they had _hammers_.” Yuuri buried his face in his hands and made deep, wretch of a sound. “It was my knee, first.” He flexed the limb, as though checking for sure that it still worked. “Then again. My shoulder. My head – but not quite as hard.” He was speaking through his teeth, forcing himself to be angry because the only other option was to be scared, and if he let the full force of the fear in then Yuuri knew he would never be able to get all of it out. His words were a hot spray. Lava. It did not suit Yuuri, Victor thought, who was always supposed to be soft and gentle and kind. “My chest. My thighs. I stopped being able to feel it after a while. All I could feel was the _cold_.”

“You were on the ice,” Victor muttered, more to himself than to Yuuri. And _oh_ , how Victor hated himself in that moment. 

“I was on the ice,” Yuuri repeated. “They stopped hitting me, and then they kicked me, just a little bit. And then they left and it was _so dark_.” The anger evaporated from Yuuri and he let out a wet sound as he dropped down onto the floor. Victor placed his hand on the carpet, halfway between them. Yuuri didn’t take it, and that was okay. “I was on the ice a-all night. In the dark, Vitya. They left me there on the ice in the d-dark. I-I. I screamed but nobody came. I was on my own.” 

“ _Luchik._ ” The word was an ache. “You. You’re not on your own anymore. I _promise_.” 

Yuuri’s hand reached out for Victor’s. When their fingers touched, stars collided and worlds were born. 

“I spent Christmas in the hospital. They told me I’d never be able to skate competitively again, even if I had wanted to.” Slowly, Yuuri shifted just that little bit closer to Victor. _Home. Safety. The rest of the world could be falling to pieces and we wouldn’t let go of each other._ Victor met him halfway, content to just sit for as long as the world stayed turning, with Yuuri’s cheek pressed to the space between his neck and his chin. He made a castle out of his arms. “It was all over the papers. They called it _Japan’s Answer to Nancy and Tonya._ ” Yuuri heaved out a sigh; suddenly, all he wanted to do was sleep. “Only we never found out who my Tonya was.” 

Everything fell away from Victor in a white-hot blur. _The people who did this are still out there._ He wanted to rip the world apart until he found them, the three with the hammers and the other who had arranged it, and punch them, kick them, _swing hammers at them_ until _they_ were nothing but cold and in the dark. Victor felt things in extremes, but even he had never felt _this_ angry before. Furious. Livid. Like the rest of the world should burn if that ensured that those responsible would burn with it. 

All thoughts of revenge evaporated, at least until a later date, as Victor felt Yuuri slump against him. Not asleep, but resting. _Open. Trusting._ He pressed a kiss to his fiancé’s forehead, curving his body protectively around Yuuri’s. 

“We can stay here, in Japan,” Victor murmured. “I’ll do anything, _Luchik_. Anything you need. I’d go to the ends of the Earth with you.” 

“Then go with me,” Yuuri whispered after a moment of silence, “to St Petersburg.”

 

* * *

 

The apartment was full of laughter. It bubbled with it. It was _alive_ with it.

Phichit watched (and documented for Instagram) as Victor took Yuuri by the hips, lifting the younger man up just slightly, so that Yuuri could reach the last patch of wall with his paintbrush. As he was lowered to the ground, Yuuri dotted a splodge of paint to Victor’s nose. In return, Victor dotted a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead – lulling him into false security as he groped for his own paintbrush to exact his revenge. Phichit felt his heart swell and slot into place because, _yes Yuuri deserves this. They both do._ Stars grew in him at the firework sounds of Yuuri’s wheeze-giggle as paint-dabbing mutated into tickling into kissing into _not now Vitya we have friends over._  

“ _Oi_. Hamster Boy.” Phichit dropped his phone back into his pocket and turned to look at Yurio. They were both stood on kitchen chairs, each holding one end of a curtain. It was white, translucent, and would easily let light through. “Focus.” 

In a roundabout away, the current happy mayhem had been Yakov’s fault. He had suggested, upon Victor’s return from Japan a month previous, that couples’ counselling might be the way to go. At first, Victor had been insulted, maybe even angry at the idea. But then a couple of days later, he’d come home to find Yuuri crying on the couch, curled up in a tight ball with Makkachin, and he couldn’t understand why and Yuuri couldn’t explain why either. _Homesickness. Anxiety. Flashbacks._ The next morning, Victor had asked Yakov for the number of the counsellor that had presided over the failure of Yakov’s marriage (but had also been the architect of Yakov and Lilia, his ex-wife, remaining at least friends). So they had once-weekly sessions, and even if it had seemed chest-squeezingly daunting at first, only good things had come of it; Victor now knew how to help Yuuri breathe through a panic attack, they never slept on an argument, they _talked –_ they sometimes stayed up into the night talking to each other, their whispers forming stars. And now here they were, redecorating because of it. Something to do with rebirth, and making Victor’s apartment look less like Victor’s and more like _VictorandYuuri’s_ – or, as Phichit referred to it, Victuuri’s Place.

The giggling and teasing continued from the corner, where half of Yuuri’s face was now stained a baby blue colour (the paint chart labelled it as _Spring Frost_ ), whilst Victor’s face was bright and pink and _Jesus Christ I’m going to vomit,_ Yurio thought. He shook his head with a deep scowl, turning his attention back to the task at hand. The curtain hooks were too small and fiddly, and it was hard to focus when all he could hear was _Luchik you’re so cute_ and _Vitya stop it._  

Makkachin was pottering around, making sure that everything was going to plan. Her nose tingled with strange scents, the source of which were the myriad vases dotted around the apartment on every available surface. Yuuri had easily gotten his job back at the little florist’s on the outskirts of the city, and Victor had taken a wholehearted interest in his fiancé’s breathtaking talent for writing stories and carving characters out of flora. So every day he bought Yuuri home a new sheaf of flowers and watched, enraptured, as the younger man turned them into poetry. He adored the way Yuuri would light up every time Victor asked _what does this flower mean_ or _what’s the Latin name again_  or _hey maybe a rose would look good here_ and it made him feel like _My Vitya_ , which felt far better than being The Victor Nikiforov had ever felt. 

Suddenly, Victor swooped Yuuri up into a bridal-style hold, spinning him as the younger man shook with laughter. As he watched Victor bustle Yuuri through to the bedroom, Yurio thought _oh God please Jesus no not whilst I’m here._ He looked across at Phichit, hoping for someone to share in his suffering, only for the Thai skater to waggle his eyebrows. 

As soon as they were in the bedroom (which was still on the To Be Decorated list), Victor kicked the door shut behind them and placed Yuuri on his feet. Yuuri looked up at his fiancé and it felt like _everything_. He pressed up on his tiptoes to kiss Victor, but lost his balance and what was meant for the Russian’s lips fell onto the Russian’s chin, causing Victor to laugh lightly, through his nose. 

“Look up, _Luchik_ ,” Victor purred as he looped his arms loosely around Yuuri’s waist. Yuuri stepped into the hold, taking a moment to breathe in the strong warmth of Victor’s chest before looking up. There, stuck to the ceiling, was a universe of plastic glow-in-the-dark stars. “You’ll never have to be in the dark again.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to be said about this chapter:
> 
> 1\. How come Yuuri suddenly wants to tell Victor? I have a couple of thoughts on this. First of all, he's wanted to tell him for some time, I think. He wants to share the pain and have someone to help him carry it but he had to be 100% sure he could trust and feel comfortable with Victor. Secondly, when he hears Victor and Yurio talking, he realises that he really can trust Victor with it, and that the only reason Victor wants to know is because he cares. He tells Victor because he wants to, because he wants the support, not because he feels like he has to.
> 
> 2\. When Yuuri starts to breakdown and Victor wants to hug him, but he doesn't, I wanted that to be a contrast to chapter four, where Yuuri is panicking on the ice and asking Victor not to touch him but Victor does anyway. Here, he actually listens to Yuuri and backs away. Not only that, but he sits down on the floor - he is consciously trying to make himself less threatening, more comforting. He knows now that he has to listen to Yuuri, that he doesn't necessarily know what's best just because it's what he wants. He's realised that Yuuri's needs are more important than his own wants.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm not really sure if I like how this chapter turned out, but thank you very much for reading it, a big hug to those who have commented, and I hope you enjoyed it! :)
> 
> The epilogue will feature: Victor kicking ass at the World Figure Skating Championships in Helsinki, Phichit pushing a new ship out to sea, and Yuuri drinking far too much champagne (and also, maybe, an ice rink).


	15. World Figure Skating Championships, Helsinki, April 2017

 

Victor swooped to a stop on the ice, one arm reaching up and ending in a triumphant fist, his legs straight and solid, his other arm cast behind him as though throwing something away. He held the pose, his chest heaving like the tide. _I’m going to be the World Champion. Again._  

And then, the audience erupted into shouts and cries of utter adoration. Victor bowed low to all sides of the rink, making big sweeping gestures with his arms. Flowers and soft toys were jettisoned onto the rink, and as he glided forwards to pick up a bouquet ( _asters for trust, red roses for passion, heliotropes for eternal love_ ) Victor found himself wondering if this would be his lasts Worlds. His body was worn and tired, and when he got in from practice he often found himself going straight to Yuuri for a kind of comfort that he didn’t really understand. But if this was his last, that was okay. The ice wasn’t _home_. Not anymore. It would be nice to have the extra time to spend with Yuuri.

He plucked up the bouquet and his eyes scanned the card tucked into it. _My Vitya._  

There, Victor could see him, in the section of seats reserved for competitors and teammates, was _Yuuri_. He was on his feet and clapping, all but drowning in an oversized _Team Russia_ jacket that Victor identified as his own. Phichit was on one side of him, an arm wrapped protective-supportively around Yuuri’s shoulders, and Yurio was on the other side, stood a little bit closer than was strictly necessary. 

Before he could think of anything else, Victor was bounding off of the ice and clattering up into the audience, ignoring Yakov’s cries of _Vitya get back here you idiot boy you need to get your score_. _Get back here right now or so help me God_. 

But Victor didn’t care about _so help me God what_. Not when Yuuri was close and wearing Victor’s team jacket, and he was _at an ice rink_. 

“ _Luchik_.” Victor heaved the word out, mapping his hands all over Yuuri’s face, searching for something. “Are you okay?” 

Yuuri found himself nodding because, yes, he was at a rink, but he was also so surrounded by love. Phichit’s arm was still around him ( _I promise I won’t let go until you tell me to)_ , and Yurio was still closer than was normal ( _I won’t let anything happen to you, Katsudon, I don’t think I could cope with Vitya moping about you all over again)_ , and on the other side of Yurio was Otabek who hadn’t said anything but had nodded softly at him, just the once. And, of course, there was Victor. Gorgeous and warm and strong and _home_. Their eyes met and melted, together. 

“For God’s sake,” Yurio grumbled, “just kiss already.” 

And then, they did. 

Victor’s hands feathered through Yuuri’s hair, which had now grown enough to tickle the Japanese man’s shoulders. When they got back to their hotel room, Victor decided, he was going to wash it, comb it, and then arrange it into lots of little plaits; not for any solid reason, just because he wanted to look after and touch and _be with_ Yuuri, in the most simplest, most fundamental of ways. Beneath Yuuri’s hands, Victor’s costume felt warm and just the right amount of scratchy to remind him that this was _real_. When he pulled away, it was to realise that the stadium had gone pin-drop quiet. Yuuri seemed to shrink in on himself, retracting into Victor’s _Team Russia_ jacket like a tortoise into a shell. 

“Everyone’s looking at u-us,” Yuuri stammered, his fingers fidgeting nervously around Victor’s. 

“But I’m only looking at you.” Victor’s voice was velvet and it wrapped itself around Yuuri, soft-tight. _Safe. Home._  

Victor felt a poke in his side. He tore his gaze from Yuuri to look at Yurio, who pointed down at the stairway leading to the seats. There was Yakov, face like an overripe pomegranate, clawing his way up the steps. In that moment, Victor would have found it easy to believe that his coach was capable of breathing fire. 

“Vitya, idiot boy, get yourself to the Kiss and Cry right this second or _so help me God._ ”

 

* * *

 

 

Victor wasn’t precisely sure how it had happened, just that they were at the Worlds afterparty and it had involved copious quantities of champagne and Yurio (who definitely shouldn’t have been drinking and Victor would be having  _serious words_ with in the morning) storming up to Yuuri with a growl of _there can only be one_. And then the two Yuris had been on the dance floor, squaring up, leaving Victor leant against the bar to watch, one eyebrow raised. When they had started dancing, like two peacocks fanning out their plumage, Victor’s jaw had dropped open so hard and fast that he was unsure if he would ever be able to shut it again. _Champagne definitely agrees with Yuuri._ _I should get him drunk more often._

At the sound of a soft-warm chuckle, Victor turned his head. _Ah. Exactly who I wanted to see_. 

“Look at our boys go, hey, Beka?” He swirled the last of his current (read: seventh) glass of champagne around the bottom of the flute. 

“Huh?” 

“You know what I’m talking about.” Victor threw his arm jovially around the younger man. He gave a squeeze, just hard enough to leave whether it was friendly or not up to interpretation. “Just know that I could _crush_ you.” And then he let Otabek go with a companionable pat on the shoulder. “So don’t mess it up, _da?_ ” Victor looked back out at the dancefloor. His champagne glass fell to the floor with a tinkling _crash_. “Yuuri! Honey, _Luchik_ , please put your clothes back on! There are _juniors_ around.” 

Otabek just watched in stunned fascination as the tall, somewhat threatening, Russian herded out his semi-clad fiancé, leaving Yurio stood alone on the dancefloor, paused halfway between a swiping dance move, leg stuck out to the side at an impossible angle. A blush spread across Yurio’s cheeks.

“You know,” said a voice next to Otabek; it was the Thai skater, Phichit Chulanont, who had seemingly popped up out of nowhere, “you should go and dance with him.” 

 

 

* * *

 

Victor paused on his trek to the hotel, a drunk Yuuri hanging off of him like a flag, just long enough to read the message that Phichit had sent him. _Check my Instagram_. So Victor did, too tipsy to think that _hey this can wait until we are inside and Yuuri has stopped trying to derobe himself._ Phichit’s latest post, put up about three minutes prior, was a selfie of the man himself, winking and throwing a peace sign. But then Victor squinted, and in the background he could see what it was that Phichit had intended him to see. Amongst the constellation of couples on the dancefloor, slow-dancing, was Otabek and Yurio, Yurio only distinguishable by his blond hair because the rest of his face was smooshed against Otabek’s shirt. The caption read _a roomful of winners_. 

When Victor looked up from his phone it was to find that Yuuri, for some unknown reason, had decided to turn his tie into a crown and was proudly wearing it fastened around his head. He beamed up delightedly at Victor, like a puppy having fetched a stick for the first time. 

“C’mon, _Luchik,_ let’s get back to the hotel. You need to sleep it off.” 

Yuuri shook his head, an idea growing in his gut. Before he could talk himself out of it, he snatched up Victor’s hand and jogged off into the cool Helsinki night. He wasn’t fast, partially thanks to his intoxication and partially down to the residue of the injuries he’d suffered all those years ago, but Victor still had to jog to keep up.

Victor didn’t realise where they were going until he saw the building looming up ahead of them. It was relatively small and concrete, unimposing; the rink that had been his base of operations for the past week or so. 

Maybe if they’d both had somewhat less to drink, Victor would have stopped and said _no Yuuri you don’t have to_ or Yuuri would have said _I can’t_. But it was a _magical_ night. Frost was pinching in on them like stardust and they breathed it in. Champagne ran through them, gilding their veins. _Life isn’t a fairytale_ , Victor thought as he and Yuuri ran hand-in-hand to the entrance, _it’s so much better than that_. 

A thoroughly bemused cleaner, who recognised Victor, let them in. They ransacked the skate hire searching for the exact right sizes, and then they sat in the locker room whilst Victor did both of their skates up because Yuuri was too drunk to even grab hold of a lace, and then they stopped in the doorway. On the edge. The precipice. The Big Jump. 

“Vitya?” Yuuri’s voice was dew clinging to a spider's web. His grip on Victor’s arm tightened, as something else tightened around his heart. He wanted to do this. He _did_. If anything, he _hungered_ for it. And that’s what made it so hard – he was desperate to meet the ice like an old friend, but something in him kept tripping, kept telling him _danger_ and _pain_ and _dark_. But then he shut his eyes and pictured those plastic stars on their bedroom ceiling. _I never have to be in the dark again._  

“ _Luchik_?” 

“You won’t let go of me?” 

“Never.” 

When Yuuri stepped out onto the ice, he was not on his own. Victor’s arms were around him, helping him glide along, slowly at first, and then faster. Victor lifted Yuuri’s hands so that his arms were spread wide and, together, they flew.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, that's a wrap! 
> 
> Thank you very, very much for reading this humble little fic that has sort of been my life for the past two weeks, and I really hoped you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! The biggest of hugs go out to those who have commented, who kept me motivated to see this project through. 
> 
> I did mention before that I'm starting to work on another YOI fic, this time a fantasy, and I think I've got the plan pretty much down (although I'm still debating whether it's going to be full-out fantasy or like an urban fantasy/everyday world with fantasy elements - thoughts?). Just in case any of you guys were interested, here's a little summary: _AU in which Viktor is a sucker for random boys that fall from the sky, Yuuri steals his heart whilst simultaneously stealing all of his spoons, and Yurio is the only one who thinks this is all a little bit odd._
> 
> Anyway, thank you again for reading Compromises! <3


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